


Whiskey, Moonlight, Gunsmoke

by RedCytosine



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur is trying his best, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, No A/B/O Dynamics, Some romance might develop later, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22889953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCytosine/pseuds/RedCytosine
Summary: "Have you had many dealings with wolves, Mr. Morgan?"Arthur gets a second chance, courtesy of a mysterious golden buck and a secret that's haunted him for years.
Comments: 48
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Not entirely sure where we're going with this but we'll get there somehow!

“I think I’ve pushed all I can.”

Arthur was staggering on the slope. He had one hand pressed to the hole in his guts and blood was seeping through his fingers. The pain was still distant in that way pain got in combat, but it would get worse. People didn’t survive wounds like this. 

“We ain’t both gonna make it,” he said, over the sounds of Pinkertons climbing the slopes in the distance. “Go to your family. Get the hell out of here and be a goddamn man.”

He passed John his satchel, put his hat on his head, and sent him away. As John scrambled down the mountain, Arthur drew his pistol and readied to shoot his brother some space. 

He’d been expecting this, in a way. Ever since things went south, after Guarma and everything with Dutch and Micah, he’d been absolutely dead-certain that not everyone could make it out of this alive. If it took him dying, he’d decided he’d do it willingly, just to give them a chance. He’d made so many mistakes despite that, failed to save too many of them. But now it was happening, he felt almost calm. All the confusion and fumbling of the past few months, all the uncertainty and doubt and terror, and now all possible paths had collapsed into just one. Hold off the Pinkertons and give John time to escape. Simple.

Time seemed to slow down once more, as it sometimes did when he fought, and he dispatched three Pinkertons with quick headshots. The three-quarter moon’s light was clear enough for this. It would have been better with a rifle, but that was down the mountain with poor Electra -- in a way just another innocent he’d failed to save. His blood was soaking his boots. 

And then someone grabbed him from behind, hissing his name, and he instinctively elbowed his attacker. But the hands didn’t let go, only losing their balance, and together they fell over the ridge and onto a lower outcropping of rock. Arthur struggled to get his bearings, feeling increasingly disconnected, increasingly faint. Micah stood over him.

“Goddamn rat,” Arthur snarled. “Not looking so hot, are you cowpoke?” Micah sneered. “Gut shot. Nasty.”

Arthur let his anger propel him onto his feet and smashed his fist into Micah’s face. He’d taken the rat by surprise, and for a moment, he had the upper hand. He pressed his advantage, throwing several more punches and reaching for Micah’s throat, but Micah recovered quickly and blocked Arthur’s blows. 

“Oh, Morgan, you’ve got some fight left in you!”

And then they were fighting on the mountainside, ugly and vicious. Several times, Arthur narrowly avoided being thrown off the cliff’s edge. Every movement, every twist and lunge and punch, made his vision go a little mistier around the edges. He was running out of time. 

Micah got a lucky punch in, and when Arthur was still doubled over, he lunged and smashed Arthur into the cliffside. As Arthur struggled to stand, he saw Micah reach for his revolver. Instinctively his own hand went to his holster, ready to draw, but his pistol had fallen out when Micah had knocked him off the ledge. He was unarmed.

A shot. Something happened in his chest. First he felt pressure, a terrible blow, and then came the pain. He tasted blood. Micah was laughing. 

“You’ve lost, cowpoke. You’ve lost.”

Arthur gathered himself enough to say, “In the end, Micah, despite my best efforts, turns out I’ve won.” He was thinking of John, racing down the mountain to be with his family. He was thinking of Sadie and Abigail and Tilly and Jack, waiting at Copperhead Landing. He was even thinking of Swanson and Mary-Beth and Pearson and Trelawny, hoping they’d managed to get away all right. 

A shadow fell over his face. He still had enough vision left to see that it was Dutch. 

“Arthur. It’s over,” said Dutch. His voice was cold.

“He’s a rat,” Arthur choked out. “You know it and I know it.”

Micah said, “He’s dying. He’s a traitor. He’s crazy.”

Dutch was silent.

Arthur gasped, “I gave you all I had. I did.”

Dutch opened his mouth as though he might say something. With all this mist in his eyes, Arthur couldn’t read his expression. 

“Come on, Dutch. Let’s go, buddy. We made it. We won.”

Arthur decided he could take some satisfaction in saying, “John made it. He’s the only one. Rest of us, no. But I tried, in the end. I did.”

“Come on!” screamed Micah. “We can make it. Let’s go! Come on, Dutch.” 

But Dutch had already turned. He was walking the other way. Micah slunk down the mountain, growling like a beaten dog. He didn’t bother to stay and watch Arthur die.

Because that was what was coming, sure as sunrise. He could feel it. The gut wound might have doomed him, but the shot to the chest was speeding things along. He found he couldn’t rise, could barely see anymore, so he dragged himself into a sitting position, braced against the mountain slope. The sun was breaking over the far hills. He watched as light filled the world.

A buck stood before him. He knew the buck, had been seeing it for a long time now. He knew, at last, what it meant. The mountainside faded away, and it was just him and the golden buck in the golden meadow. Its eyes promised peace and quiet and an end to sorrow and regret.

And the buck blinked at him--

\--and it was like a hundred full moons coming at once, slamming through him like a Grizzlies avalanche. He was back in his body, back on the mountain, and he was changing. Normally the change took a minute or two, but this was a matter of seconds. The twisting and tearing, the not-quite pain, the disorientation, all raced through his bones and blood, all the sharper for their suddenness, and then it was over. The buck was gone, and he was wide-eyed and breathing in the dawn light, covered in blood but no longer bleeding. 

For a moment, Arthur could only lie there in astonishment. He wasn’t dead? He’d changed without the moon? What in the goddamn hell? 

A Pinkerton’s voice jolted him out of his shock. “He went this way! Come on!”

They were coming for him. He could hear footsteps on the slope and the scattering of loose stones. He’d have to find leisure later to consider how and why he got here because wolf or not, they’d try to kill him if they found him. He was still wrapped in his clothes, now absurdly ill-fitting. He shredded them with his teeth and stepped out of his boots and gunbelt. He turned and left the ruined scraps of clothing behind, then plunged away down the slope.

He found himself following Micah’s path down the mountain and south, into the Roanoke Ridge woodlands. The rat’s smell was heavy, greasy, unmistakeable. Part of him wanted to keep tracking it. He couldn’t have gotten far. On four feet, Arthur could easily catch up, and then they’d find out how well Micah could defend himself, not against a dying man, but against a healthy and very irritated wolf. He found himself baring his teeth just imagining it. He could practically taste the blood…

Arthur pulled himself up. No. He hadn’t gone back for the money and he wasn’t going for Micah, either. At least not now. He was going to protect John and Abigail and Sadie and Tilly and Jack, and whoever else he could find. 

If he even could protect them. What in the hell had happened to him? He should be dead. But somehow, he was alive, and looking at the light of the new dawn with a wolf’s eyes for the first time in his life. 

Could he even change back? He didn’t know how.

Arthur’s mad dash down the mountain had carried him south and slightly east, and he was deep in the river valley now. Panting, he paused by a quiet section of river and stared into the water. His reflection wasn’t particularly clear in the current, but he could see the black and gray fur, the yellow eyes. He sniffed the water to check for the poison he knew was flowing out of the mine, but it smelled clean, so he took a wary drink. 

In the shadow of the trees, with a new day’s chorus of birdsong, he listened to the flight of deer and rabbits through the brush, the sound of a galloping horse on a far-off road. He breathed in the scents of the night movements of small things through the grass. The earth was damp and cool beneath his paws and he could smell rain coming from the east, from over the lake. He took a moment to breathe, to focus on simply being alive. Somehow.

The change had healed his wounds. It always did. But it could only come with the full moon, or at least, it had only ever come then, and so it wasn’t terribly useful the other twenty-seven nights of the lunar cycle. The buck, though, had done something to him. Maybe had given him a second chance, one that he didn’t deserve. 

He wasn’t going to waste it.

  
  


_1885, Columbia Gorge, Oregon_

Arthur watched the fire kindle and the sun set over the western hills. This was magnificent country, all cliffs and pines and snow-capped mountains standing alone above the plain. And still wild, mostly. The closest city was Portland to the west, and that wasn’t particularly civilized as these things went. 

After hitting a train near Salem, Dutch had brought them east of Mount Hood, to the open country. It was livestock territory at best out here, rough and unsettled. Plenty of opportunities for the gang. Hosea had already started in on the local bank, ingratiating himself with the manager in his way. Arthur, for his part, had gone out drinking and had overheard some rather interesting rumors about a rancher up near the Columbia river who might have some cattle to spare. He’d ridden north to the river, scoped out the place. It all looked promising: not much security on the ranch, easy access to bring the herd into town for sale afterward. He couldn’t wait to tell Dutch. He could almost picture the proud smile on his mentor’s face as he told him what a thorough and professional job he’d done planning the raid. 

By the time he’d finished scoping the place out it was near dark, and so he’d ridden only a few miles in the evening light before setting up camp in a small copse of trees near a spring. The roads were bad here, full of stones and groundhog holes that could twist a horse’s foot. He didn’t want to chance it, not when he had no real reason for urgency. 

Beyond the cluster of trees, the arid plains rolled away to the darkened eastern horizon. It was a good campsite, protected as it was by the trees. He settled Castor in a grassy spot and gave him a few oatcakes and a thorough grooming. He’d earned it today, cantering all around that big ranch for hours under the sun.

He didn’t think there were too many other gangs operating in the area, so he chanced a fire. He’d packed some canned meat and beans since he wasn’t much of a hunter, and as he ate his dinner, he sketched a little by firelight. Though, truth be told, the moonlight was bright enough to sketch by all alone.

Arthur secretly loved nights like this, camped out by himself with nothing but the night wind and the cries of nocturnal animals to disturb him. Camp was noisy, dramatic, usually friendly and comforting, but sometimes it was stifling. Too much talk, too much attention, too many expectations. Out here, he could sit in silence. No one else here except Castor, but horses were always good company. 

He was just considering putting away his sketchbook and getting out his bedroll when he heard a wolf howl in the distance. He reached for the sawed-off shotgun in his hip holster, reassured by the smooth grip under his fingers. Truthfully, he wasn’t particularly worried. Wolves were to be expected in country like this, but they would fear the fire. Now he was glad he’d set it up. He’d have to bank it before turning in, but even the residual glow and the scent of smoke should keep anything from trying to eat him before morning. 

Still, he didn’t feel much like sleeping just yet anymore. He kept sketching a while, drawing the ranch layout from memory so he could explain it better to Dutch later. He managed to lose himself in the details of the terrain before the howl came again, and closer.

This time, Arthur stood. Wolves ought to fear people, especially if they were alone, as this one sounded. They shouldn’t approach a fire. Castor shifted uneasily and tossed his head, and Arthur went to calm him. As he stroked the colt’s neck, he listened hard for the noise of any approaching large animal. There was nothing.

Not that a wolf would make much noise, of course. Unless it wanted to.

The howl came again, louder than before. Castor jumped out from under Arthur’s hand, ripping his tether away from the tree. Arthur called out, “Whoa, boy!” but Castor was beyond hearing. He spun and bolted into the night, carrying Arthur’s saddle with him. Arthur whistled for him to come back, but he didn’t have much hope. The sound of Castor charging through dry grass faded away into the distance.

Arthur put his back to the fire to deter sneak attacks and drew the shotgun. He fired off a warning shot into the dark. 

“Get gone!” he yelled, not knowing at what exactly. 

A moment of stillness. Then, he saw a flicker of movement in the dark to the side of his eye. He spun, gun drawn, but he was a fraction too slow. The wolf hit him in the side, bowling him over, away from the fire, and knocking the shotgun from his hand. It pinned him to the ground and lunged for his throat.

He grunted as the blow knocked the breath out of him, but even as he hit the ground, he tried desperately to grapple with the wolf, to throw it off him. All he could see was a black shape, darker than the trees or sky, and unnaturally silent, not a howl or a snarl. He blindly reached out with his right hand for the shotgun, his only real hope. He managed to thrust his left arm between the wolf’s teeth and his jugular, and the teeth bit down through his sleeve, once, twice, three times. He groped in the dark with his one good hand, and then, miraculously, his fingers closed around the grip of his shotgun. 

Arthur didn’t bother to consider his aim carefully. He just prayed he didn’t shoot himself by accident, twisted his arm, pointed the shotgun in what he hoped was the right angle to hit the beast, and pulled the trigger. The world vanished for a second in a blaze of noise and light, and when it came back, the wolf was off him. 

He rolled to his side instantly, bringing the shotgun around, aiming in the direction he thought the wolf had been blown. It was there all right, now painted by firelight, the biggest wolf he’d ever seen, sprawled on the ground. He could see the black blood oozing from its head. His shot had blown its face half away. 

Arthur took a deep breath. It was dead and he was alive. “Goddamn monster,” he breathed into the quiet dark. 

And then the wolf raised its head. The blood still dripped on the ground from its ruined face, all misshapen and jagged and raw, but it raised its head and looked at him, and its one good eye glowed with reflected firelight. It stood, impossibly, a little jerkily and off-kilter but still standing, and stared Arthur down. 

Arthur was frozen. If the thing had made another lunge for his throat, he didn’t think he could have offered the slightest resistance. But it didn’t attack; just stared for a long moment, in defiance of all natural order and law. Then the wolf that should be dead turned and walked away into the moonlit night. 

Arthur waited a long, long while by the fire, shotgun in hand, twitching at every sound. He fed the flames almost obsessively. He didn’t dare let them die out. 

The wolf didn’t return. There were no more howls. After an hour or so, he whistled again for Castor and the horse came back, crashing into the firelight. Arthur found his return very reassuring. He didn’t think Castor would come back if the wolf was still about. 

He bandaged his arm. The bites could have been worse, but he’d still gotten chewed up pretty good. But he’d count himself lucky to have run across some kind of devil and not been killed. 

In the morning, the wolf’s blood was still there, soaked into the dirt near the fire. Arthur followed the trail a short way, as far as he dared. The trail of blood droplets stopped only a few yards from the fire. The thing had stopped bleeding awfully quickly. There was no sign of its corpse nearby and he wasn’t much of a tracker. Truly, though, he didn’t have any desire to chase it down. He’d be happy if he never ran across anything like that again.

There were strange tales on the frontier, about wolves and men and devils in the shape of beasts. Everyone had heard them, but Arthur had never believed them. He tried to put it out of his mind on the long ride back. His reception from Dutch was just as enthusiastic as he’d dreamed, and that distracted him all that evening. Bessie fixed his hastily-applied bandages and lectured him on nearly getting himself eaten. He left out the part about the wolf standing up after taking a shotgun blast to the skull at point-blank range. 

He was worried about hydrophobia -- it wasn’t a good way to die -- but figured there wasn’t much he could do about it if he had it. The wolf hadn’t been foaming at the mouth, anyway, and he was pretty sure hydrophobia wouldn’t let an animal survive what this one had. 

He had dreams about it most nights: the flash of its one eye, the bloody skull, the echoing howls. He didn’t think to watch the moon until some time later. And then he never forgot to watch it again.

Arthur shook himself out of his reflections. _We can’t change what’s done_. Now he had to move on. On foot, John couldn’t have reached Copperhead Landing yet. Unless he’d stolen a horse somewhere, Arthur could easily overtake him.

And do what, exactly? Run up to him in wolf shape and get shot? He’d taken enough bullets recently. 

He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. The wolf in him was getting restless. He wanted to be off. The Pinkertons were still too close. Soon, this area would be flooded with even more of them. It wasn’t safe. 

He raced south, through the territory of a small pack of true wolves. He could smell their scent marks on the trees. Normally he’d avoid places like this, but all the nearby commotion had clearly driven them to ground. They wouldn’t resurface from hiding until the humans were gone. So he ran unopposed down the river valley, past Butcher Creek, keeping to the far side of the river in case any of the poison-mad locals happened to be out and about. Ducks and deer went flying from him. He wasn’t bothering to be stealthy. 

Slowly, the territory began to change from the deciduous woodland of Roanoke Ridge to the flat, swampy Lemoyne earth. He dodged the roads where he could, but this part of the country was all too settled, marred by railroad tracks and wagon ruts. A wary, wild part of him saw all these things as foreign and forbidding. _Human_. He used that wolfish part now, followed its natural inclination to hide when riders or carts rolled by. No one saw him. 

Not far south of Van Horn, near the border of Lemoyne, he found himself too close to the road for comfort with the rising thunder of hoofbeats in the distance. He ducked into a convenient bush and peered out. His hair stood on end.

There must have been forty Pinkertons and lawmen both, on horseback and in wagon after wagon, heading north and riding with weapons drawn. Word of the train job, or his and Sadie’s raid on Van Horn, or the final battle at Beaver Hollow, must have reached Saint Denis already, and reinforcements were riding out. Maybe they’d catch Dutch. The arm of the law grew longer every day. 

At last the troop passed by. Arthur half-slunk, half-darted across the road, ears pinned. He trotted east now, but kept low. The muddy, reeking ground under him was far too exposed, and if he wasn’t careful, he could easily be spotted from the road or railroad tracks. Several times he had to stop and hide in the brush when riders and wagons rattled by on the wooden roads over the swamps. Once, he had to dive into a shallow pool for cover. When he came up, gasping for air, covered in mud, and with a dozen herons squawking at him, he silently cursed this swamp with every bit of invective he could think of. 

At last he made it safely across the railroad ties. He was east of all the major roads. Nearly at Copperhead Landing. He caught a faint scent he recognized, not of a person yet, but of a horse. It was Bob, Sadie’s golden Turkoman stallion. So Sadie and Abigail had made it here. 

Thinking of Bob reminded him of Electra. She’d been so brave, right up to the end. She’d deserved better than to belong to a doomed outlaw, but she’d been faithful nonetheless. 

Well. There would be time for sorrow later. Right now, as he looked around at the swampy flatland, he could see that Copperhead Landing had been a terrible place to send Tilly. It was far too exposed. He’d hoped it would be out of the way of the law, but it was only a matter of time before someone spotted them out here. And the scent of rain was getting stronger. The shadows were getting longer. They’d need to move, and quickly. 

Arthur crouched and crept closer. He could smell more horses now, and as the wind shifted, he picked out more familiar scents. Tilly, Jack, Abigail, Sadie. He could have beamed with joy if he was shaped for it then. 

Concealed behind a thick bush, Arthur pricked his ears to listen. For a moment, he heard nothing, but then Sadie’s voice rose up.

“Eat some of this.”

“I’m not hungry.” That was Abigail, her voice thick and choked and defeated. It hurt to hear her like that. 

“Eat it anyway.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Listen to me!” Sadie’s tone sharpened. “I know it’s bad. You know I know just _how_ bad it is. I might be the only one who does. But you’ve got to be strong now. You’ve got a boy who needs you.”

There was another silence, then the sound of a can opening. At last, Abigail said, “Happy now?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s going to rain soon.” That was Tilly. “Not much cover out here. We should get out of the open.”

Would John even find them if they moved? Goddamn it, where was he? Arthur glanced around in hopes of seeing him riding toward them, but there was nothing. It had been a foolish hope anyway. He wanted them to move, or tell the women that John was alive and coming for them. 

He briefly considered scratching a message in the dirt and leaving it for them, but they’d probably miss it, or shoot him, or simply not believe it. And he dearly wanted to be back in his own skin again. He’d try to change back. But if he did it now, if he succeeded, he’d be naked and wouldn’t that be the perfect ending to this hellish day, turning up in front of the women and Jack with no clothes on. 

He dared to lift his head from the brush enough to look at the camp. They hadn’t started a fire. The four of them were seated in a rough circle, Jack on Abigail’s lap. She looked like she’d been crying. Sadie and Tilly were both holding repeaters. Luckily, neither was looking his way. 

Someone had thrown an extra horse blanket on the ground outside the circle. That would do. Keeping low, Arthur circled around. He was downwind of the horses, so they hadn’t caught his scent yet, and he was doing his wolfish best to move silently. Not even he could hear himself pass. 

Quick and quiet as he dared, he grabbed the horse blanket and retreated back to the safety of the large bush. Then he tried to pull his thoughts into order. He steadied his breathing and closed his eyes. He had no idea how to change voluntarily but it seemed he’d need to learn. He refused to be stuck as an animal for the rest of his life. _Come on, dammit_ , he thought, a little desperately. _You changed one way without the moon. It can’t be that hard to change back._

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly and subtly, he felt it. A warmth spread through his bones, the same warmth he felt when the full moon set and he came back to himself every month. The change swept through him, not like an avalanche this time but simply, smoothly, and he found himself lying in the brush, flexing his fingers and staring at them in wonder. His chest and belly were whole, not even a scar. He was covered in mud.

No matter. He’d had worse. The elation of being alive and a man again was more than enough. He wrapped himself in the horse blanket -- not particularly dignified, but better than the alternative -- and stood.

“Who goes there?” Sadie saw him the second he rose from the bush. He raised his right hand in surrender, his left being occupied with holding up the blanket. 

“What the -- Arthur?” Abigail stood. “Why…?”

Arthur opened his mouth to begin before he realized he had no idea what to say. He went with the most important bit. “John’s alive. He’s coming this way.”

“John’s… he’s alive?” cried Abigail. 

“Dutch left him to die. He got shot but he’s alive. He should be here soon.”

Sadie lowered her repeater. “I’m glad that John’s alive, but Arthur, what happened to you?”

Arthur briefly considered lying. But he wasn’t Hosea. Fighting, stealing, killing, he could do. He just wasn’t that good a liar when it came down to it. And he’d been carrying around this secret for so long. Maybe too long. He could count on one hand the number of people in the world who knew what he was. He had no idea how they’d react if he told them, but still, he’d fought and killed with them all, except for Jack, and they’d all saved his life at one time or another. 

Before he could lose his nerve, he said, “It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you, but can I borrow a coat from someone first?”

After Sadie dug around in her saddlebags and pulled out a duster, and he felt slightly more dignified, he sat on a convenient log nearby, and with all their attention on him, he began to talk. He started with that night in Oregon fourteen years ago when he’d been attacked by what he thought at the time was a devil. And he told them about the curse that had followed him through all the years since, and how it had saved his life, inexplicably, undeservedly. They were silent and he didn’t dare look at their faces as he spoke for fear he wouldn’t be able to continue the story if he did. But it was easier than he had expected once he got going. It was like he got the bit between his teeth as he told them the truth at last. The last light faded as he talked and it was nearly night before he got to the end. 

He finished with the mountaintop fight with the Pinkertons, his injuries and how they were healed, and his day’s journey to find them here. Staring at the ground, he said, “I dunno if you believe any of that, but it’s the truth. Hell, I probably wouldn’t believe it if I heard it. But, well. There it is.” A rather pathetic note to end a story on, but it was all he had. 

As the silence stretched out, he dared a glance up. Sadie was stone-faced. Abigail looked faintly stricken. Tilly wore an expression of profound concern. And Jack just looked confused. 

“Are you saying you’re a werewolf, Uncle Arthur?”

Arthur flinched, then let out a bark of laughter. Of course Jack would use that word. Arthur had never said it aloud.

“I guess I am,” he said. 

“I guess you fell and hit your head,” Sadie said. “This ain’t right, Arthur. I got no idea what happened to you on that mountain, but this is crazy.” Tilly, too, was shaking her head, more pitying than angry. 

Arthur hung his head. He shouldn’t have expected anything better. “I know how it sounds.” Then it occurred to him, _John_ , and he cursed himself for a fool for not thinking of it earlier. “John. When he gets here, he can tell you about how I got hurt last night. And what happened when we found him up in the mountains, back when we were still at Coulter.”

“You told John about all this?” asked Abigail.

“No, but, well…”

And like an actor taking his cue, John spoke up in the shadows behind them. “Arthur?”

They hadn’t heard him come in. Arthur had been talking so long, trying to get his point across, that they’d all gotten distracted. Anyone could have snuck up on them in the twilight, and it seemed someone had. At least it was John and not the Pinkertons.

Abigail stood at once, Arthur’s strange story forgotten, and threw her arms around him. “You’re alive,” she gasped. Jack ran to him, arms open, and John lifted him up and spun him around. Seeing them like this made Arthur’s chest ache a little. He didn’t like to think about it, but of course, the ghosts of Isaac and Eliza still followed him all these years later.

Sadie didn’t let the reunion go on too long, though. She grabbed John by the shoulder and spun him around, bringing him to face Arthur. “Arthur here claims to be a werewolf. Says he was injured real bad by the Pinkertons a few hours ago. Also says he saved you once near Colter. Any of that ring a bell?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus fun fact: in this universe, Arthur was still exposed to/infected with TB when he beat up Thomas Downes, but got cured at the next full moon and was none the wiser.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I probably won't be able to update this quickly all the time but y'all's comments gave me life. Seriously, no exaggeration, comments make my day. 
> 
> Now let's have a flashback that wasn't supposed to be this long but kinda got out of hand oops

_Colter_

For the first time in days, the weather cleared. It was still bitingly cold, enough to freeze Arthur’s eyelashes whenever he stepped outside, enough to make his lungs ache. It was the kind of cold where a person stopped being able to feel coldness anymore -- it just felt like the air itself had a vicious temper. They’d brought all the horses into the barn at night so they wouldn’t freeze to death. There were no stalls, so they just turned them loose in the small space. That morning, several came out with tooth and hoof marks from nighttime bickering. They weren’t used to being penned up like that.

Nor was Arthur, for that matter. He was restless, which was common enough for him in camp and doubly so when they were all cooped up in little cabins. Worse, tonight was a full moon, and he could already feel it pulling at him. Quietly, for now. It wouldn’t be so gentle come evening. 

He had little enough to do, for once, and it was driving him up the wall. He sketched and caught up writing in his journal. Drew a portrait of Bodicea. That was still a raw wound. It was always hard, losing horses. He prided himself on taking care of them, on being a real horseman, and not just some damned fool who used them and threw them away. 

Bodicea had been a lovely mare, not big, but solid and reliable. A warmblood cross of uncertain provenance, a bay coat, and a fondness for peppermints. She’d fallen to a Pinkerton’s bullet on the way out of Blackwater and he’d had to scramble onto the Count’s back with Dutch. He hadn’t gotten to say a proper goodbye. 

He was just filling in the details around her eyes, trying to get the expression right, when Dutch’s shadow appeared in his doorway. Arthur quickly shut his journal and looked up.

“How are you keeping, Arthur?” asked Dutch.

“As well as I can.”

“Abigail came to me. You know John’s been gone over a day now.”

Arthur sighed. “Not this again. John’s fine. He’s lucky that way. Hell, most likely he’s gone and run off again. He’ll be over the border now. This time, maybe he won’t come back.”

“I don’t believe John would do that. I’ve spoken to him.”

“Yeah, well…” Arthur trailed off. He didn’t feel like explaining to Dutch how furious he still was with John. Sometimes he even thought John _should_ run, go all the way this time, and never come back. He wasn’t doing Abigail and Jack any good as it was anyway. He had everything, _everything,_ and he didn’t even care. He just threw it away. 

“Arthur, will you look for him? The weather’s cleared up.”

Arthur glanced out the window. The light was shifting, shadows growing. More than that, he could feel the coming night. Even with his eyes closed, he would know. 

“It’s not a good time, Dutch.”

“How do you mean?” Dutch’s voice suddenly sharpened. He never did much like having his authority questioned, but lately he seemed to be even more wound up. Arthur raised his hands in surrender.

“It’s not like that. It’s the… the moon’s out tonight.”

“I see.” 

Dutch knew, of course. Had to know. But they’d rarely spoken of it in so many words. More often than not, Arthur simply took one of his rides out for a couple of days around the moon, came back with some money in hand from a quick robbery, and no one in the gang questioned him about it. The few times it had conflicted with a job, he’d quietly reminded Dutch of the time of month and Dutch had either changed his plans or cut Arthur out of it. Arthur didn’t mind this arrangement; truth be told, he’d rather not talk about it directly. This time, though, it couldn’t be avoided.

“Well,” said Dutch after a long moment, “can’t you look for him anyway?”

“Are you crazy? I won’t get far before the moon rises.”

“So look for him after it rises. You’ll be able to track him in ways that the rest of us can’t. Nobody’s been able to find him, not even Charles. Arthur, I am asking you. Try.”

Arthur hesitated. “I don’t know if it’s going to work. I won’t be myself.”

“Just try, son.”

“All right.” Arthur put down his journal and headed past Dutch on the way out the door. He needed some air before sunset, no matter how spitefully cold. 

It seemed he wasn’t the only one. Abigail stood on the porch of the cabin across the way, wrapped in a heavy shawl and staring at nothing. She started a little when Arthur came out and gave him a steady look. He nodded at her. She didn’t respond. 

He probably deserved that. He’d been harsh with her when she’d come to him worried about John. He’d let his frustration at her husband get the better of him. But he was still too bitterly angry to apologize, and he’d only been telling her the truth: John was probably long gone. So, rather than try to talk to her and likely make things worse, he lit a cigarette and watched the tethered horses shift their weight and switch their tails. The Count tried to take a bite out of Taima when she edged too close, but she gave as good as she got. Arthur smiled a little at that. 

By the time he finished his cigarette, it was time to get ready. The moon was close, and the snow had turned pinkish-orange with the setting sun. He ground out the butt into the slush and entered the cabin. 

Hosea was sitting by the fire. He’d been napping earlier when Dutch and Arthur spoke about John, but now he was up and about. It did Arthur some good to see him smile. “Good luck, Arthur,” he said softly. So Dutch had told him about their plan. Arthur gave him a nod and a three-finger salute, headed for his room, and shut the door.

He opened the small window high in the wall while he still had hands. He figured he could jump up and squeeze out of it after the change. He undressed and threw his clothes in a pile in the corner of the room. Good thing Susan couldn’t see that. Then he shut his eyes and let go.

He could draw it out, resist the moon a little. He’d tried to stop it altogether at first, back in those first few months after he’d been bitten. But it never worked for long: the change was inexorable on the full moon, rising through his bones like the tide. He might as well try to hold back the ocean. These days, he usually gave in quickly just to get it over with. The change moved through him in all its discomfort and strangeness, a minute or two of awkward shuddering and shifting on the floor, and then it was done. He stood on four feet. The small room had suddenly become ten times more oppressive and stifling, covered in foreign scents. He jumped to the window, scrambled clumsily out, and crashed headfirst into a snowdrift. 

After he got his feet under him and finished swearing internally, Arthur glanced up at the window. He had no way of closing it now. In the morning, his room would be frozen, along with the rest of the cabin. Hosea wouldn’t be too pleased with him. Nothing to be done about it now, though. He shook the snow out of his fur and trotted off into the snowy woods. 

The cold would have killed an unprotected human, especially now the sun had gone down. But Arthur hardly felt it through his thick pelt. His paws, far larger than a dog’s, carried him neatly over the surface of the snow. This part of the woods still reeked of human scents, and he instinctively headed away from camp, into the woods and mountains. He would put some distance between himself and the humans, find some deer or rabbits…

Arthur forced himself to stop. He had to at least try to find John. He’d promised Dutch, and he probably owed Abigail that much at least. He turned back towards camp, keeping the tree line between him and the fires so the lookouts wouldn’t spot him. He caught a glimpse of Javier on guard near the north road, holding a carbine and looking frankly miserable in the cold. He didn’t see Arthur circling the buildings and heading north. Arthur joined the road once out of range of the firelight.

The frozen ground was thick with the scents of people and horses. He sorted through the smells of the familiar horses, searching for something older. Any hint of John, or his horse Joe. He walked up the road a ways, head low, sniffing every few feet. All he got was a cold nose.

Arthur wanted to give up. There was no sign of John. This had been a fool’s errand from the start. But then he caught the scent of woodsmoke, just a hint, coming from up the road. It could be John. Or a bunch of O’Driscolls, far too close to camp. He loped up the road to investigate. 

As he approached, he quickly saw the camp was deserted. No O’Driscolls lurking about, and no John, either. The fire had died, but the smoke and charcoal scent was still strong, so someone must have been here recently. He sniffed at a fallen tent and this time, he caught a definite scent. John had been here. 

He glanced around for any visible tracks, but the wind had blown them all away. No matter. He picked up Joe’s scent heading northwest, towards a stream. That could make things complicated. If John had ridden through water for any length of time, it’d be nearly impossible to track him without walking along each bank for miles. Arthur had agreed to look for him, but that was entirely too much to ask. Especially for the sake of a deserter. But luckily for John, Arthur caught the trail right on the far side of the stream.

The trail led him up the mountain, around gorges and dropoffs. He skirted sheer cliffs and kept himself well away from the unstable snow and ice at the edge. His wolf shape might heal even after a hundred-foot drop, but he didn’t care to test it out. What the hell was John thinking, riding around up here? He really was as dumb as he looked. 

At last, the ground leveled out as he came to a high plateau. Arthur paused for a moment in the clear darkness. The stars were vivid and the moon glancing off the snow lit up the world, nearly as bright as noontime sunlight. When he looked at the moon, he felt something deep inside him stir. He wanted to sing to it.

He clamped down on that impulse before any sound escaped him. No howling at the moon. He had a job to do. 

Looking around the plateau and considering the winding, tortuous trail that he’d followed up here, he found himself starting to doubt, almost despite himself, that John had been trying to flee the gang. He had to admit that this wasn’t the way to Canada. It wasn’t the way to _anywhere._ He couldn’t imagine what had brought John up here, but whatever it was, he hadn’t been running. 

The wind changed. From relative stillness, a gust came howling over the plateau from the north, and it carried the smell of blood and decay. A horse, Joe, had died near here. 

Arthur took off running. The snow was looser up here and he broke through the surface a few times, but he paid it no mind. The scent of death was stronger and stronger. Then, on the side of a small rise, near the cliffs on the north side of the plateau, he saw Joe’s body sprawled in the snow. John was nowhere to be found.

First Bodicea, now Joe. He’d been a good horse. Something had torn open his throat. Arthur gingerly scented the body, and his fears were confirmed. Wolves, real ones. 

All the blood he could smell was horse. They hadn’t killed John. He couldn’t have gotten far on foot. He circled Joe’s body and searched for a trail. With all the blood filling the air, it took him a minute or two to find it. John had headed downhill, towards the sheer slope of the mountain. The wolves hadn’t followed. They’d gone west instead, sensibly, and not tried to scramble around on the cliffs.

Arthur paused near the mountain’s edge. There was a small, sheer, slippery-looking trail headed down and east. John’s scent lay heavily on the rocks and snow. It would have been hard enough to traverse with hands to use for grip. Without them, it looked positively foolish to try. _Goddammit, John._ He hadn’t left Arthur with much choice. Slowly, haltingly, he picked his way down the path. 

It led him along the northeastern slope of the mountain, down icy slopes and through low overhangs. Several times, he had to jump up several feet to a ledge, and once, he slipped on the ice on landing and had to scramble madly with his claws to keep from falling off the mountain. Panting and heart hammering, he took a moment to recover before continuing on. 

At last, he leaped up to an overhang and saw the ground level out. He was on another plateau, a little to the east of the one where he’d found Joe’s body. John’s scent was strong. He had to be close. Arthur raised his head and pricked his ears to listen for any sound of him. Maybe he’d call out, or talk to himself, or cough, or even just breathe loudly. Then Arthur could find him without having to show himself. He wasn’t interested in getting shot at. 

Instead of John, what he heard was a snarl. His ears twitched and he turned in the direction of the sound. Five wolves appeared on a rise to the south. They must have circled back after they killed Joe. They were trotting downhill, towards something, or someone, Arthur couldn’t see. He bounded forward recklessly until he got a decent angle and could see what they were hunting. 

John stood with his back to a cliff, where one of the mountain’s peaks rose from the high plateau. He was holding a knife, his holsters empty. His entire attention was fixed on the oncoming pack, and theirs on him. They were racing on now, closing the gap quickly. They’d be on him in a few strides. None of them saw Arthur coming. 

He plowed into the nearest wolf, teeth bared. They skidded through the snow together as the wolf yelped with shock and pain. Arthur had the advantage of surprise. He twisted and tried to find the wolf’s throat through its thick ruff of fur. He had to finish this quickly -- he didn’t like John’s chances fighting four wolves at once armed only with a hunting knife. At last he drew blood and a moment later his opponent went limp. Arthur sprang back to his feet. The other wolves were circling John, waiting for an opening. He tackled the nearest one. This time, the wolf was ready and spun around to meet him. They fell, grappling, into the snow. 

The wolf got its teeth into Arthur’s shoulder. He stifled his own yelp of pain and bit hard. He didn’t bother to aim, just buried his jaws where they landed. His teeth grazed a rib. At last the wolf let go, and he picked it up by the scruff of its neck and slammed it into a nearby rock. It tucked its tail between its legs and ran.

Before he could turn back to John, another wolf slammed into him from behind, snapping at his flank. Arthur spun around with a snarl. He caught the wolf’s ear between his teeth and held on, hard. The wolf whined and pulled away. Like the last wolf Arthur had fought, it raced away back uphill and west.

Finally, Arthur had a moment to glance at John. One of the other wolves must have attacked him: it was lying dead in the snow and his knife was dark with blood. The last wolf stood between Arthur and John. It glanced between the two of them and seemed to weigh its chances. Then it turned and followed its packmates away. It must have decided there were easier ways to find a meal.

Arthur stood, panting. He was bleeding from bite wounds on his shoulder and flank, but he wasn’t concerned. Those would heal within minutes. He was more worried about John, who was still backed up against the mountain and gripping his knife. His face was covered in blood. The wolf he’d killed must have bitten him. But Arthur could hear his breathing, fast but clear. He was steady on his feet. He’d live. 

“Stay back!” John yelled when he saw Arthur turn to him. Arthur didn’t move. He was still trying to catch his breath. Looking at John, he found himself relieved at seeing him alive, relieved that he hadn’t fled the gang. But it was all still mixed up with anger at his abandonment of them all. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to curl up around John and protect him from the cold, or bite him.

When he caught himself thinking that last, he shook himself hard. _Snap out of it. You’re not a wolf._ On these nights, he sometimes scared himself with ideas like that. He had to remember who and what he was. He couldn’t go biting John. He couldn’t turn him. Not least because if he did, Abigail would have his hide. 

As he watched Arthur stand unmoving, the fear and desperation slowly faded from John’s face. He glanced around, seeming to notice the other dead wolves for the first time. His hand trembled as he held the knife. 

“Did you… did you kill them?” he asked. “What the hell are you?”

Suddenly Arthur wanted to be anywhere but here. If John kept looking at him, he was sure, somehow he’d see Arthur behind the wolf’s yellow eyes. Arthur remembered the wolf that had lunged at him out of the darkness, the creature that had stood when it should have been dead. Nobody had fired a shotgun at Arthur, but he could feel his bite wounds knitting back together even now, as the other wolf’s had that night. He still sometimes woke in the night, breathing hard, after dreams about that thing. He didn’t want to be that monster for John. 

So he ran. It was simple, and something the wolf was good at. He ran down the slope and back towards camp as the night faded. He lost himself, for a time, in the stars and the cold and the feeling of racing over snow. His favorite way to travel would always be on horseback, but on these nights he couldn’t deny how fine it was to run, smooth and tireless, so fast that nothing, not even his fears, could follow.

As dawn approached, he managed to squeeze back through his window, but not before leaving claw marks on the cabin wall and probably making enough of a racket to wake Dutch and Hosea. After he changed back, he found his room was just as cold as he feared. He dressed quickly, scarfed down a can of cold beans that had somehow not frozen during the night, and headed out to face the day.

Dutch was in the front room, somehow put-together and neat as always, as Arthur entered. “How did you get on?” he asked.

Arthur turned to face him. “I found him. He’s up the mountain. Some wolves attacked him -- regular wolves -- but he’ll be all right.”

“Thank you, son.” Dutch smiled. “I told you he didn’t run.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Since you know where he is, head out when you can and go get him.”

Arthur sighed. It’d be a lot to ask of a horse, getting all the way up there in the snow. Still, he didn’t know how to avoid it. He couldn’t carry John down the mountain on foot. And the remaining wolves from last night might decide to try again. On horseback, they had a chance of outrunning them. 

He fed and saddled the bay pinto Tennesee Walker he’d taken from the Adler ranch. The colt was hesitant under him, understandably reluctant to head out into the cold. As he swung into the saddle, he patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, boy,” he whispered. “Can’t be helped.”

Charles, up on guard duty, was the only one out this early, the only one to see him leave. “Where are you headed, Arthur?”

“Looking for John.”

“Forgive me, but how’s your tracking? It won’t be easy after all this wind blowing the snow.”

“I’m just gonna take a look, see what I can see.”

“Okay, well, be careful. I saw some wolf tracks up that road, not far from camp. Big prints.”

“I got this, Charles. Thanks.” Arthur gave him a half-wave and asked the pinto colt for a trot. They headed up the road along the invisible trail Arthur had found last night. Charles would normally have been right to doubt Arthur’s tracking ability. Today, though, circumstances were a bit unusual.

Rather than edge around the cliffs this time, Arthur took the more direct route up the mountain, along the stream for a while and then up the slope to the plateau where he’d last seen John. The wind blew snow into his eyes, and without a natural fur coat he was distinctly less comfortable, even though the temperature had risen with the sun. Halfway up, he paused to rest the colt. They’d jogged up the mountain, which was easier for horses than walking uphill, but he was still struggling with all the snow. For his part, Arthur took a swig of whiskey from a bottle he’d taken off a dead O’Driscoll on the night they’d found Mrs. Adler. He felt a little warmer, and when the colt’s breathing steadied, he mounted up and continued on. 

He found John right where he’d left him. Now that the blood had dried, he could see long scratches across John’s face. That’d leave a scar. Still, John was lucky he’d only been bitten by a regular wolf. 

John caught sight of him at last. “Arthur? That you?”

“Seems that way.”

“Never thought I’d say this, but I am glad to see you.”

Arthur snorted. He dismounted and slogged through the snow towards John. “Come on, princess,” he said. “Let’s get you back.” He slung John up onto his shoulder and carried him towards his waiting horse. 

No wolves bothered them on the way down. Arthur figured he and John must have given them enough trouble the previous night. The survivors were probably somewhere up in the mountains, licking their wounds and biding their time. As they cantered across along the gorge, John asked, “How did you find me? I’m not much of a tracker, but neither are you, and I can’t see a damn thing in this snow.”

“Oh, must have got lucky, I guess. Or unlucky, to find you.” He hurried to change the subject, get John on the defensive so he’d stop asking questions. “What were you doing coming all the way up here, you damn fool?”

“Got lost in the snow and my horse died. Near got frozen and eaten to death. That enough for you?”

“Jesus, quit whining,” Arthur replied. “I’m starting to wonder if it was worth it, coming all the way up here for you.”

“Where is here, anyway? Where did you all camp?”

“Abandoned mining town. Not far. Now shut the hell up so I can concentrate on the trail.” Of course, Arthur knew the way. He’d gone by here more than once, and in more than one shape. He didn’t need to concentrate on the way back, but talking to John, so close to their encounter last night, was making him anxious. He’d be happiest if John forgot all about the wolf that had saved him. Of course, those scars were going to make that a bit difficult. 

They returned to camp to some fanfare, mainly from Abigail. She hauled John off the pinto’s back. She was clearly torn between enormous relief at seeing him alive, and intense anger at how he’d nearly gotten himself killed. Arthur accepted her thanks with a nod. Maybe she’d forgiven him for how he’d spoken to her the previous day. At least he’d made it up to her by bringing John back.

He turned the pinto loose in the barn, figuring he deserved a break after climbing all that way in the snow and then carrying two men back down. He was still there, in the barn, sketching the pinto idly, when Dutch came up behind him. 

“Well done, Arthur.”

“It wasn’t nothing, Dutch. He nearly managed to get himself ate, but, well. He’s always been lucky. No doubt he would have gotten back here somehow.” He’d always been uncomfortable with taking praise or credit and preferred to deflect it onto others. Dutch, though, was persistent.

“It was surely something. Take a rest for today. You’ve earned it. Tomorrow, well. We’ll see about these O’Driscolls. I’ll need you with me on that.”

“Of course.” 

Dutch gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder and left. Arthur finished his sketch and headed out to find a drink.

That night, the whole gang crammed into the front room of his and Hosea’s cabin. Arthur hung back against the wall, out of the spotlight. Pearson pressed bourbon on John, and as he got a bit loose, he started to talk about how he’d gotten his scars, now bandaged by Susan and Reverend Swanson.

“Didn’t have my guns no more. Just a knife. And there was four, no five, of the biggest wolves you ever seen. They come running at me and I’m thinking, this is it. I ain’t getting off this mountain. 

“One of them big bastards jumps me and bites me in the face. I get my knife up and manage to nail him in the throat. He falls down, dead. And then I look up, and all the others are fled or killed too, except one. Biggest bastard of them all, and he's bleeding in a couple places. And I realize, this one had killed all the others.

“I get out my knife, ready, but he just stands there and looks at me. Then he runs off. I ain’t never seen a wolf act like that. Damndest thing.” John shook his head. “Damndest thing.”

In the back, Arthur shifted uncomfortably. 

“Anyway, in the morning, Arthur here shows up out of nowhere.” This was followed by a round of toasts in Arthur’s general direction. He waved them off with a faint smile. As soon as no one was looking at him, he slipped away and out the door. He needed some air again. 

The moon tonight was nearly indistinguishable in brightness and shape from last night’s, but Arthur could feel the difference. It didn’t call to him. Nothing in his bones called back. He watched it for a while, wondering not for the first time what strange sorcery changed him every month. Whatever it was, it had let him save John. It had done some good for once. He wouldn’t go expecting it to turn out useful again, though. That wasn’t how life worked, not for him. Good things never stayed that way for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obliged to say that contrary to what Arthur thinks in this chapter, drinking alcohol does not make you warm up in the cold. It only feels that way because it dilates blood vessels near your skin, so you feel warmer but actually lose body heat faster! This can be super dangerous! Also smoking is very bad for you. 
> 
> Obligatory health-related note aside, I hope everyone reading this chapter has a lovely day <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Took me a bit longer this time because of school and whatnot. I think roughly weekly updates are a realistic schedule, although I may get chapters out faster when I can! 
> 
> I cannot adequately describe how much of a ridiculous grin your comments put on my face. Like, a really ridiculous grin. 
> 
> No flashbacks here for once. Arthur is trying to stay in the moment but he's very confused right now. Also no werewolfery but that'll be back soon enough!

“Arthur’s saying what?” John looked utterly confused. “Wait, Arthur, how are you alive? I mean, I saw that wound…”

“You missed the story,” said Arthur. 

“So he really was shot?” Tilly glanced between them, obviously unsure who or what to believe. 

“Yeah, I saw it. Or at least, I think I did. Don’t make no sense, though. Arthur, you saved my life -- you ought to be dead.”

“Sure,” Arthur agreed. “I ought to be. I don’t rightly understand it myself, but, well…” He struggled to get the words out, suddenly at a loss. He’d already been through this, and this whole godforsaken day had been so long and so ruinous, and all he wanted was to sleep and maybe eat something, and handle this godawful mess tomorrow. But there was no putting it off. “I’m, er…”

Jack came to his rescue, of course. “Uncle Arthur’s a werewolf! He told us so!”

“He told you what now?”

Arthur steeled himself and spoke up. “John. Listen. You remember Colter, getting lost up on that mountain?”

“Of course. You think I’d forget something like that?”

“After you got back, you told everyone one of the wolves had killed and driven off some of the others, but didn’t attack you.”

“Yes…”

“What you didn’t tell everyone is what you said to the wolf. You and him stared at each other for a good long minute. When he didn’t jump you, you said, “What the hell are you?” For the first time, Arthur actually hoped John remembered that moment. Because Arthur himself remembered, painfully clearly. Remembered the exact look of fear and bewilderment on John’s face. He pushed on. “And right when you said that, the wolf took off running south. Big dark gray wolf, black markings on his face. You could see him because it was a full moon.”

John was silent. “I never told anyone that.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched between them. It started to rain. 

They had two tents, one each from Tilly and Sadie’s saddles. Neither was particularly big or even waterproof, but they were better than nothing. They set them up in the ruined shack so that at least they wouldn’t sink into the mud in their sleep. Jack and Abigail bundled into one. John, still nursing his bullet wound, got the other. He protested that Tilly or Sadie should have it, but the two women jointly shoved him in, and he quieted down. 

Abigail and Tilly said they believed Arthur after John corroborated his story. Sadie, well, it was hard to tell. She didn’t say much, just poked at the now-drenched remains of the fire with a crooked stick, repeater in her lap. Tilly wrapped herself in a shawl and gazed out into the dark, lost in thought. Arthur hunched his shoulders against the rain and resigned himself to being thoroughly soaked and sleepless. He opened a can of corned beef. The sun had gone down; the only illumination came from a lantern that Tilly had managed to pick up somehow on the way down here. 

After a while, Tilly said, “Sadie, Arthur, I’m going into Saint Denis.”

Arthur drew back, startled. “You insane? There’ll be law crawling all over the place! You can’t go there.”

“The law’s got no idea who I am. They don’t know my face. Unlike Sadie, making all that noise in Van Horn. And Arthur, I don’t know where in the civilized world you’ll ever be able to go. But I can head to Saint Denis and see what’s going on, get the lay of things. I can buy you some real clothes and boots, Arthur, and some better tents. We’ll need supplies anyway.”

Arthur didn’t want to risk it. It would be absurd, any of them going right into the lion’s den. What if Micah had given them Tilly’s description? What if they grabbed her off the street? 

“No,” he started to say, but Sadie cut him off. “Good idea, Tilly. Take some of the money and buy a couple of decent horses while you’re there. Food, blankets. Some medicine for John. Whatever else you think is best. Take my revolver with you.” Tilly nodded and began to rummage through her saddle bag. She counted out some of the bills Arthur had given her near Beaver Hollow and stowed them in a shoulder bag, then passed the rest to Sadie for safekeeping.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Arthur began. 

“Hush,” said Sadie. “We ain’t got no choice. We can’t last without supplies and you look like a drowned rat in that coat. Drowned dog, I guess. Now shut up. Tilly, you think you know what size things to get for him?”

Tilly looked at him appraisingly. “I reckon so.”

“Good. Get back by midday tomorrow and don’t be followed back here. If we ain’t here, look for us near that little church in the bayou. You know the one.”

Tilly mounted her roan stallion and trotted off into the night. The sound of hoofbeats faded, leaving only the cries of the night birds and the patter of falling rain.

“Well, that’s me put in my place, then,” muttered Arthur.

“Had to be done.”

Arthur sighed. “I know. Guess I don’t like splitting up is all. Don’t like seeing Tilly alone with all them Pinkertons out there.”

“She can take care of herself.”

“Sure.” He didn’t quite know what else to say, not knowing how things were between him and Sadie now, after all he’d told them. 

A branch broke in the darkness. Arthur sprung to his feet and grabbed the spare repeater. Sadie was up too, wordlessly, both of them on guard. All was still for a moment. Slowly, Sadie reached for the lantern and held it up in the direction of the noise. A fox looked back at them, its little eyes flashing in the lantern-light. After a frozen moment, it turned and sped off inland. Arthur took a deep breath and lowered the repeater. 

“Thought it was a Pinkerton,” he said.

“Or a gator. Lots of bad things in this swamp.”

Arthur nodded. “You ever run into the Night Folk?”

“Sure, when Charles and I cleaned out Lakay. Nasty bunch.”

“Nasty don’t quite cover it.”

Silence fell again. Arthur fiddled with the repeater, looked to see if it needed cleaning. It’d need some work when the rain stopped, but for now, there wasn’t much to be done. Then, blessedly, Sadie broke the quiet.

“Arthur, I… I dunno what to think, exactly. But I don’t have any other explanation for what you and John say happened today. So until I can think of a better one, I’ll go with your version of things.”

“Thank you.” He really meant it. The last thing he needed right now was for Sadie to think he was crazy. Things were too precarious, too close to disaster. _You’re the only one of these fools that I trust,_ she’d said. He couldn’t throw that away.

“You kept that secret, all them years? Did Dutch know?”

“Yeah. Him and Hosea, they knew. Not too many others. Most of the gang didn’t know.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Well, at first I was too damn scared to go around talking about it, if I’m honest. Then later, I guess you get used to keeping things to yourself. I just kept track of the moon and planned everything out and kept my mouth shut.”

“You ever met another werewolf?”

“Not aside from the one that bit me. If you could call that meeting ‘em. Not too many of us out there, I reckon.”

“A rare breed. Kinda like outlaws, I guess.”

“Getting rarer by the day.”

“Arthur, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you made it out. It’s good to have you with us.” Sadie reached over and patted his shoulder. Before he could respond, she told him, “You’ve had a hell of a day. Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch and wake you if anything happens.”

Arthur wanted to argue, even opened his mouth to refuse, but all at once a wave of pent-up exhaustion hit him, and the thought of closing his eyes suddenly seemed impossibly alluring. He nodded to Sadie and headed for the ruins of the shack, where the boards were soaked and uneven, but at least he wouldn’t be sleeping on mud. He set the repeater within easy reach, wrapped himself in the same old horse blanket, and was asleep almost at once.

He dreamed he was back on the mountain, sprawled defenseless on the ground. Micah stood over him and cackled “I’ll skin you alive, Morgan!” He held up a hunting knife and plunged it down toward Arthur’s chest. Arthur rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet, only to find Dutch watching him, illuminated from behind by the sunrise. 

“All those years, Arthur, and for what?” asked Dutch. “What can you give me now?” Arthur tried to run, yell, say something, but he couldn’t, and his chest and gut felt on fire, and then he was drowning in darkness. A flicker of firelight burst through the dark, just bright enough that Arthur could make out a familiar face, bloody and ravaged, teeth bared in a ruined skull. The face of the werewolf in the night. Then a stronger, softer light bloomed next to it, and Arthur saw the golden buck. It stood next to the wolf, inscrutable as always.

“What do you want from me?” Arthur asked.

The buck made no reply. It only blinked, just as it had done on the mountain. As he tried to call out again, the dream fell apart and he gasped back into wakefulness. He checked to see what shape he was in as he caught his breath, but the buck hadn’t changed him this time, thankfully. 

The rain had stopped, although his blanket and coat were still sodden. Morning mist had rolled in from the lake and hidden the view of the road. In the distance he could hear the clattering roar of a distant train, mixed with the whooping cries of a flock of cranes. 

The others were up, save Jack, and clustered around a small fire. Somehow they’d managed to find enough dry wood to burn. Tilly hadn’t returned. 

“Morning, Arthur,” said Abigail. In spite of the rain and mud, she looked happier than he’d seen her in a long time. Her face shone with it. She looked _hopeful._ That was something. And why shouldn’t she? She had her man and her son, they’d gotten away from the gang, and maybe her family could go straight from now on, like she’d long since wanted. 

“Good morning, Abigail,” he said, and meant it. 

No sooner had Arthur taken a seat around the fire than John began to question him about being a werewolf, and particularly about what had happened at Colter. Arthur answered what he could. He had to repeat several things he’d said before John had arrived. John was incredulous that he’d kept it a secret for so long.

“I can’t believe nobody noticed.” 

_Someone noticed,_ thought Arthur, but he didn’t want to go into what had happened with Charles just then. He’d save it for another time. Instead, he said, “I did go to some lengths to hide it.”

“You was always riding out, gone for a couple days here or there. I never thought anything of it.”

“That was kinda the point.”

A noise of hoofbeats came through the mist. Arthur quieted immediately and gripped the repeater. The hoofbeats grew louder and he waited, tense, focused on his breathing like he’d once taught Charlotte Balfour. 

Then Tilly’s voice broke through the mist. “Are y’all still here?”

“Oh, thank the Lord,” said Abigail. Sadie and Arthur put their repeaters away as Tilly and her roan emerged from the fog. She led one horse behind her, a chestnut Suffolk Punch with a white star. Strapped to both horses’ harnesses were a large number of boxes and bundles. Tilly dismounted and began sorting through them. 

“What’s the news?” asked John.

“You were right, Arthur. The city’s full of Pinkertons,” said Tilly. “Posters of Dutch on every corner. They think you’re dead, though.” She tossed him a cloth-wrapped bundle, followed by a pair of roper boots. He caught them with profound gratitude and unwrapped the bundle. He found a dark pair of work pants, plain suspenders, and a blue shirt, plus underwear and socks. 

“Tilly, I owe you one. They think I’m dead?”

“Shot and eaten by wolves is what I heard.” Arthur chuckled at that. “They haven’t found Dutch. No word of any of the others just yet.”

“Micah?”

“Nothing.”

On the other side of the fire, Sadie spat. “Good. I don’t want the law getting to him before I do.”

“You ain’t the only one,” John said. As he spoke, Tilly passed him a tonic she must have picked up in Saint Denis. “Drink all of that now,” she told him. He made a face, but downed the whole thing. 

Arthur silently excused himself and went into John’s tent to get properly dressed. He was still muddy, in desperate need of a bath, but he felt a dozen times more human wearing proper clothes and boots. He missed his gunbelt, wished he’d had the presence of mind to grab it before he’d run off. But leaving it behind probably added to the impression that he’d been killed. Micah would have told the law about his fight with Arthur by now, so they’d know he’d been fatally injured. If the Pinkertons really believed him dead, that was all to the good. Still, it would be best to keep his head down for a while. No need to go spoiling his obituary. 

By the time he left the tent, Tilly had finished sorting through the supplies. She’d bought more medicine for John, changes of clothes for everyone there, a decent bolt-action rifle, gun oil, canned food, hay, oatcakes. Arthur was most interested in the new horse. 

“You just bought the one horse, then?” he asked as he approached the chestnut. He looked like a solid draft horse. Probably not much speed, but sound and strong. He snuffled at Arthur’s hand, and Arthur scratched the white star on his forehead. 

“I tried to get two. Asked at the stables, asked pretty much everyone I could. The law’s buying up just about every horse in town. They’re bringing in a whole bunch of reinforcements by riverboat and need to mount them up. I was lucky just to get this one, the way things are going.”

“We’ll manage, I suppose.” Arthur patted the chestnut’s shoulder one more time, then set about getting some breakfast. As he ate his can of beans, Tilly passed around a newspaper she’d bought in Saint Denis. Arthur took in the headline.

OUTLAWS PURSUED AFTER VAN HORN BLOODBATH

PINKERTON DETECTIVES, OFFICERS OF LAW MOUNT AGGRESSIVE CAMPAIGN TO CAPTURE CRIMINAL GANG

_“The infamous Van der Linde outlaw gang appears to be on the run at last. Following a terrifying spree of robberies and murders across four states, most recently an attack on law enforcement officials in Van Horn, the government has partnered with private detectives to bring these criminals to justice. Their cooperation is bearing fruit, as the gang has recently been scattered and at least one high-ranking member has been killed._

_“Two days ago, the Van der Linde gang conducted a brazen train robbery, in which dozens of our country’s brave men in uniform were wounded or killed. This was followed by a treacherous attack on officers of the Pinkerton Detective Agency in Van Horn. These officers pursued the gang into the hills of Roanoke Ridge, New Hanover, where they drove the outlaws from their hideout. After a prolonged exchange of bullets, the law was at last victorious. Confirmed killed was Arthur Morgan, one of the most notorious and dangerous of the outlaws. Other gang members are scattered and, according to Agent Ross of the Pinkerton Agency, should be in custody shortly._

_“This is an historic day for the rule of law and order in this country,” Agent Ross proclaimed._

Arthur handed the paper off to John. He didn’t need to read any more. They hadn’t caught Dutch, then. That stood to reason. Dutch always was good at squirming out of a tight spot. Arthur could picture Dutch as he stood over him on that mountain, when Arthur was bleeding out. How Dutch had looked at him. Looked at him and done nothing, said nothing. In the end, that was what loyalty had come to. 

What the hell was he supposed to do now? He’d told himself he didn’t want to waste this second chance, and that was true, but he had no clue in hell where to start. These people, John and Abigail and Jack especially, needed to start a different life, settle down and finally, truly, live. Leave the past behind and get free of all of it. At least try. 

Arthur didn’t think he could do it. What did he know about life except thieving and killing? What was he good for in a world that had no place for him? He’d been ready to die to give the ex-Van der Lindes a chance. He wasn’t a good man, but he could do that much. Now, though? He thought of his dream last night, of the buck blinking at him. _What do you want from me?_

He shook himself. He was good at getting inside his own head, if he let himself. Going down rabbit holes, like he’d once told John not to. It was part of why he liked his tough, thoughtless outlaw veneer. It let him focus on action and leave the thinking to others. And look where that had gotten him. Shot, left for dead, on the run again, and far too many innocents killed. He’d need to think for himself now. Couldn’t rely on loyalty to guide him. And that started with making a plan. 

They had to leave here. As soon as this mist cleared, they’d be exposed again. When the Pinkertons couldn’t find them near Beaver Hollow, they’d start checking out every campfire and suspicious-looking traveler from Saint Denis to the Canadian border. Before that happened, this small band of disloyal Van der Lindes had to be long gone. 

They couldn’t go south by river or sea or via Blackwater and West Elizabeth. If they got far enough north, they might reach Canada, but in the way would be most of the army and the entire payroll of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Too risky. Nothing for it, then. They’d have to reverse course on the last six months of running and go west. 

He reminded himself of Dutch, thinking like that. All that relentless flight from one dangerous spot to the next, pursued and hounded and driven in all directions. Wherever Dutch was, was he thinking of the gang? Did he wonder why it had all fallen apart? Did any part of him question his own actions? Or was he just holed up with Micah, listening to his poisonous flattery, counting dollar bills and dreaming of the South Pacific?

Did he think of Arthur and twenty years of loyalty all come to nothing?

Never mind all that. He’d write it down in his journal later. That always helped. Right now, they needed to survive the next few days. 

Arthur looked up at the others. John was still reading the paper. Tilly, Sadie, and Abigail were discussing what Tilly had learned in Saint Denis. Arthur cleared his throat. “So. Now we’re all stocked up, thanks to Tilly. We’ve got to move. Pinkertons will be sweeping this area soon enough, I guarantee it. Now, I dunno if you all want to stick together or split up, but either way, we can’t stay here.”

There was a moment of silence. Arthur stared at the ground. It might be safer, in some ways, to split up. Smaller groups were less noticeable. It was common sense. But something deeper ran in him, deeper than common sense, certainly; he wanted to keep these people together, protect them, stay united in the face of all the world coming for them. No doubt he was just being selfish again, wanting them to stay when they’d be better off without him, but he didn’t know what he’d do if they decided to go their separate ways. He was sure every one of them were getting ready to say they were leaving, scattering to the four winds, because why would they want to stay --

Abigail spoke at last. “I vote we stick together. For now, anyway. At least, John and Jack and I and Arthur, if you’ll have us.”

“Don’t I get a vote?” asked John.

“What are you voting, then?”

“I… I’ll come with you all.”

“Me too,” said Tilly. 

“And me, for a little while,” said Sadie. 

Arthur exhaled, deeply relieved. “Okay, then. Guess we’re all in agreement.”

“Where are you proposing to go?” asked Tilly.

“I dunno. Figure we can’t go north or south or east, so that only leaves west. Unless y’all fancy trying again for Tahiti?” He got a few grim chuckles at that. “We need to keep our heads down for a while. Let things cool off and figure out what we’re doing.”

“We just camp out somewhere?” asked John.

“Or find an empty homestead. Gonna be winter soon.” Arthur had run across any number of abandoned homesteads out west. Sometimes the remains of the former owners were still there, but that was no worse than what the gang had to clean up at most of their recent camps. The one-room houses would be cramped for five adults and a kid, but they’d just have to manage.

“There’s a sizable ranch out west just got vacated,” said Sadie. 

It took Arthur a second to make out her meaning. Then, “You mean Hanging Dog? Don’t you think what happened to the, uh, previous occupants might draw the law’s attention?”

“That part of Big Valley’s pretty wild. The law ignored a whole camp of O’Driscolls out there for months, and we won’t be making near as much noise as they did. It’d be okay for a little while, I think. Just until we figure out what we’re doing. Ain’t planning on settling down there.”

“I never been out that way,” said John. “What kind of country is it?”

“It’s beautiful, if a cougar don’t get you,” Arthur said. He had a sudden image of Sadie at Hanging Dog, covered in blood and half-wild. Why would she want to go back there? He couldn’t ask her now, though, not in front of everyone. Instead he said, “Seems as good a place as any.”

“Right then.” Sadie stood. “Let’s get going.”

After a brief discussion, they all agreed how they would travel. Sadie took point with Bob. John and Abigail both rode the Suffolk Punch and Tilly rode drag in the rear with Jack. They divided up the supplies, trying not to overburden any one horse. At last, Arthur climbed up on Bob behind Sadie and they were off. 

They had to move slowly, and not just because of the snakes and gators. There was still heavy traffic on the north-south road that connected Saint Denis with Van Horn and Annesburg, much of it the law. Fortunately the mist hadn’t cleared yet. Tilly and Jack waited near the road until there was a break in the flow of riders and wagons, then signaled the rest of them to follow. They slipped across the road and west into the swamp. 

Arthur held the bolt-action rifle and kept his finger on the trigger. The tall cypress trees, draped with moss, loomed out of the fog and closed their branches overhead. The horses’ hooves squished in the boggy ground. Every splash or snapping twig had Arthur scanning the trees and bushes. Time and again, it turned out to be a muskrat or boar or snapping turtle. The mist was a double-edged sword: it might hide them from searching Pinkertons, but a whole posse of lawmen could be waiting around any corner, hidden until it was too late to avoid them. And he didn’t even want to think about camping out in this part of the bayou after dark. Might as well beg the Night Folk to hang them all on the trees.

He’d ridden through this swamp so many times that he knew, despite the mist, when the bridges were coming up. They were taking the northern covered bridge, with the idea of skirting around Lemoyne and cutting through the Heartlands on their way to Big Valley. With every step Bob took closer to the Kannassa, Arthur tightened his grip on the bolt-action rifle. If he were a lawman, he’d set up checkpoints on these bridges. They could keep an eye on everyone leaving Lemoyne. No one would try to swim the rivers -- at least, no one who didn’t want to end up as an alligator’s dinner. 

“Hold up,” he whispered to Sadie when they were only a few dozen yards from the bridge. Bob slowed from trot to halt. Arthur slipped off his back and crept forward. He crouched low and darted behind bushes and tree trunks. He just hoped he wouldn’t blunder into a gator or coppermouth. 

Climbing ivy and heavy underbrush obscured his view of the bridge as he neared. He strained to listen. Then, from near the mouth of the bridge --

“Avery, you’ve got a mosquito on you.”

The sound of a slap. “Son of a bitch. I hate this swamp. I hate this whole pointless job.”

“Don’t let Ross catch you saying that. He’s obsessed. All those Pinks are a strange lot.”

“He caught them all the way up near Annesburg. What the hell would they be doing down here?”

“You think I got any idea?”

Arthur edged as far forward as he dared. Finally, through a break in the leaves, he saw them. Three men, deputies by the looks of them, armed with rifles. Bored, distracted, off their guard. Not the brightest examples of their profession. Arthur could live with those odds. He and Sadie would have to pick them off as quickly and quietly as possible, though. No sense in drawing unnecessary attention if more patrols were about. 

He crept back to where the others were waiting and related in whispers what he’d found. Sadie immediately dismounted, repeater in hand. John did, too.

“What are you doing?” Abigail put her hand on his shoulder as he checked his revolver. 

“I’m going with them.”

“You’ve just been shot!”

“If I could fight through fifty Pinkertons with Arthur to get here, I can damn well fight through three lazy deputies.” He had that familiar stubborn look, the one that meant he wasn’t backing down. Abigail knew it too. She had to let him go. “Be careful,” she told him as he turned to join Arthur and Sadie. The three of them held a whispered conference to one side of the road.

“Can we do this silently?” asked Arthur. He wished he still had his bow. He’d gotten fairly decent with it over the past few months, thanks to Charles. But it was gone, back with the rest of his weapons on a mountainside far to the north, where Electra had fallen. Sadie dug through her saddle bags and drew a set of throwing knives. She passed them out and together they crept back into the brush.

Arthur, John, and Sadie lined up near the bridge, knives in hand. The three lawmen were still chatting in low voices. One of them lit a cigarette. Arthur gritted his teeth. He’d never had Charles’ or Javier’s knack with throwing knives. He couldn’t miss. The stakes were far too high.

His throw was good. He knew the instant his knife left his hand that the balance and timing were right. But his target, the deputy closest to the south side of the bridge, lowered his head to search for something in his pocket at exactly the wrong moment, and so, while John and Sadie’s knives struck home, Arthur’s landed in the wooden wall of the bridge with an audible thunk. The deputy jumped about two feet and screamed. He drew his revolver and fired into the bushes wildly. 

Arthur grabbed the rifle from his shoulder. He took a fraction of a second to exhale, then pulled the trigger. The deputy dropped. After the the sudden gunfire came the panicked snorts and whinnies of the deputies’ horses in the bushes on the far side of the road. Arthur hadn’t been able to see them before, but he could certainly hear them run away through the brush. 

Arthur lowered his rifle. “Shit,” he muttered. So much for getting away quietly. They had to move before anyone came to investigate the gunshots. One look at John and Sadie told him they were all in agreement. They rushed back to the horses, caution abandoned. 

“What happened?” asked Tilly.

“We gotta get out of here,” Arthur told her as he mounted Bob. Sadie dug in her heels and the Turkoman surged forward down the road. Arthur glanced back to see the Suffolk Punch show a surprising turn of foot. He was keeping up well with the other two horses. They careened around the bend and crossed the bridge in a thunder of hooves. 

With a borrowed revolver from John in hand, Arthur kept watch behind them as they entered Scarlett Meadows and took the northern road. The mist had cleared up on this side of the river and he could finally see clearly. They cantered through rolling hills and forested lowlands. At first, nothing stirred except a herd of wild boar that squealed and scattered as they rode past. Then, distant shouting and hoofbeats. Behind them appeared a group of horsemen, galloping fast and gaining on them. 

“Ride!” Arthur yelled. Sadie shifted forward, asked Bob for speed. Tilly grabbed Jack with one hand and her revolver with the other as she followed them. Arthur counted six riders. He couldn’t tell at this distance whether they were Pinkertons or local law.

“Halt in the name of the law!” shouted one of the riders. “If you do not stop, we will be forced to fire!” In response, Arthur took him out with a revolver shot. The other riders immediately started firing. Arthur knew there would be no outrunning them: the law rode one man to a horse, whereas both Bob and the Suffolk Punch carried two adults. Arthur wished they could have stolen two more horses from the deputies at the bridge, but there’d been no time to catch them. As it was, their only hope was to kill their pursuers quickly and run for it. 

Sadie and John returned fire at the lawmen along with Arthur. They dashed around bends, leapt stones and fallen logs, veered wildly across fields to dodge bursts of gunfire. Despite their irregular track, the chasing riders narrowed the gap with each stride. Arthur heard Bob’s breath go ragged with fear and exertion. They needed to end this. 

Tilly, now racing at the head of the pack, guided her roan into a small copse of trees. If she’d been hoping to lose the law, it didn’t work: their pursuers were too close. Sadie turned around in front of Arthur, picked out a gap in the trees, and fired. Seconds later, a lawman slumped in the saddle and his horse wheeled away into the dusk. John, too, shot down a lawman as they raced out of the wood, and Arthur got a clean shot on another. As he aimed for one of the final two lawmen, he heard Tilly gasp in pain.

“Tilly! You okay?” he yelled.

“I’m all right. Keep going!” Tilly turned, wielding Sadie’s revolver, aimed, and fired. Another lawman dropped. A moment later, Arthur killed the last of them. Tilly slowed from mad gallop to slow canter. Even now, they didn’t dare stop. 

“What happened?” Abigail called. 

“He grazed me a little, but nothing too bad,” Tilly said. Arthur saw a dark stain spreading on her upper arm, near the shoulder. Luckily it didn’t look too deep, though they wouldn’t know for sure until they stopped and looked it over properly. “Jack’s not hurt.” 

Jack, in fact, was huddled up against Tilly, eyes screwed shut. “Is it over?” he asked, voice trembling. 

“It’s over, kid,” John told him. “You did great.”

“What happened to those men? Why were they chasing us?”

“You don’t need to worry about them. They won’t be following us no more. Don’t look back there, Jack.”

“He shouldn’t have had to see that,” Abigail hissed. 

“What kind of choice did we have?” 

Arthur cut the argument short. John and Abigail would have to fight this out later, when they were safe. “We should keep going, if you’re okay to keep riding, Tilly. Got to put some distance between us and that mess.”

“Sure, Arthur,” said Tilly. “Hold on tight, Jack.”

They galloped on as the night fell. They’d passed Pleasance and cut through the woods and fields to the north and west. Bob was sweating and breathing hard, ears pinned. _Just a little further, boy,_ Arthur wanted to say. 

At last the trees opened and the hills gave way to the expanse of the Heartlands. Arthur could make out the lights of Emerald Ranch in the distance. They circled north through the sparsely forested area where the Lemoyne and New Hanover woodlands faded into the rolling plains. No sense in venturing into the open where Pinkertons with binoculars could spot them from a distance. The moon, nearly full, gave more than enough light to ride by.

Just west of Emerald Ranch, Sadie drew Bob to a halt, or perhaps more accurately, quit asking him to move forward. He stopped at once, as grateful as any horse Arthur had ever seen to finally get some rest. “The horses need a break,” she said. “Let’s hold up here for tonight.”

“Can I help light the fire?” asked Jack as John lifted him down from Tilly’s arms. He’d already recovered somewhat from being chased by the law. That kid was all kinds of tough. 

“No fire tonight,” John told him. “Maybe tomorrow.” They all laid out their bedrolls under a nearby oak. Sadie, Abigail, and Arthur tended to Tilly’s arm. Luckily, it had only been a shallow graze, but they still had to clean it with whiskey -- Tilly gritted her teeth -- and bandage it.

Arthur helped settle the horses and took the first watch. He watched the stars spin, watched the waxing moon travel its path through the sky. Would it still call to him in a few nights’ time? He had no idea. All the rules he’d ever lived by were gone. The world was changing more rapidly than he could understand. What was left to hold on to?

Behind him, Abigail softly sang Jack to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who reads this: take a moment to be kind to yourself today. You deserve kindness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And we're back! Sorry for the slightly late update. Exams got me but they're over for now. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my and Arthur's shared obsession with horses, with special thanks to the Moonstone Pond Missouri Fox Trotter glitch.

Arthur woke to the sound of Jack’s laughter. He sat up from his bedroll and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. In the pre-dawn light, Jack was wielding a stick and digging through a pile of leaves near the trunk of the tree. He noticed Arthur watching him and held up his hands in triumph.

“Morning, Uncle Arthur! I’m collecting acorns!”

Arthur badly needed some coffee before he would be fully prepared to handle this, whatever it was. But they had no fire and no percolator, and so he’d have to do without. Abigail flashed him an apologetic look.

“Hush, Jack, let Uncle Arthur sleep a little more. You can help me keep watch, how’s that sound?”

“It’s okay, Abigail.” Arthur stood and rolled the night’s stiffness out of his shoulders. He put on his boots and fished around in the saddlebags for breakfast, then pulled his journal out of his satchel. He hadn’t expected to see it again, and as he read the last entry, he found himself once again shocked to be alive. He’d been so focused on getting the others out these past few months, so certain that he, Arthur, wouldn’t make it. 

For the first time, he found himself sketching the buck. He’d drawn plenty of bucks before; he’d spent a good long while on his drawing of the piebald one he’d shot out in Black Bone Forest. But this was a whole different proposition: this was  _ the _ buck. As he’d lain dying on the mountain, he remembered a flash of clarity and a sense that at last he understood just exactly what this buck meant, but all that had vanished the second the creature had blinked at him and sent him gasping into wolf shape. Now, he was more confused than ever.

He started with its general outlines. Those were easy enough. They could belong to any deer. Antlers and hooves and wide-spread ears. He found himself focusing on every detail. Filling in the contours of the fur, making sure the joints and muscles and shading came through. It was only after several minutes of this that he realized he was stalling. The buck’s face, its eyes and nose and mouth, were a complete blank. He readied to start on its eyes several times, even touched the tip of his pencil to paper, but it never felt right. Something was off, and he couldn’t tell what. Finally, he turned the page in exasperation and wrote:

_ I have had the most astonishing and awful couple of days. Eagle Flies was killed. It was my fault. Then things came to a head with Dutch and Micah. Javier and Bill stuck by them in the end. Micah killed Miss Grimshaw for siding with me and John. We all knew it was coming and yet, when it happened, I almost could not believe Dutch was so far gone. What a bunch of fools we all were, me especially. _

_ The Pinkertons came after us. Turns out Micah was the rat all along. They chased John and I up a mountain and shot me halfway to hell. Then, through some kind of divine intervention I guess, I ended up changing. Saved my life for some reason.  _

_ Now Abigail and John and Jack and Tilly and I are on the run together. God knows where we shall end up, although so far we are headed by a crooked route to Hanging Dog. Got to ask Sadie why she wants to go back there.  _

_ RIP Eagle Flies _

_ RIP Susan _

_ RIP Electra _

“Look Mama! Squirrels!”

Arthur closed his journal. Jack had piled up several acorns and built a lopsided tower in the fallen leaves. A pair of gray squirrels watched him intently from several feet away. Jack jumped toward them in excitement and they scattered. “Can I chase them, Mama?”

“Let’s leave them alone.”

“Cain liked to chase squirrels. Is he okay?”

Arthur remembered the look on Micah’s face as he’d watched Jack search for his dog. Micah had actually kicked the poor mutt a couple of times. He was the type to make a boy’s dog disappear. Just another casual cruelty. Arthur had a notion Abigail suspected the same as he did about Cain’s fate, especially when she replied, “Cain’s a smart dog. No need to worry about him now.”

By now the others had started to rise. Tilly and Sadie were opening cans of strawberries and John was checking over his revolver after the previous night’s action. Arthur stood up with the thought of going to check on the horses when he noticed Jack’s downcast expression. The kid really had been through a lot. Maybe there was a way to distract him, cheer him up a bit. Arthur was far from the right person to bring happiness to anyone, let alone a child, but he could try at least. 

“Say, Tilly,” he said loudly, before he thought better of it, “that horse you picked up in Saint Denis doesn’t have a name, does he?”

Tilly looked at him in momentary confusion. He jerked his head in Jack’s direction by way of explanation and she brightened at once. “No he doesn’t. I wonder who could give him one?”

Arthur put on a mock-serious face. “Say, Jack, do you know anyone who’s got a knack for naming horses? You see, a fine animal like that needs a good, strong name.” 

“Could I name him?”

“Why, sure you could!” said Tilly. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

Jack raced happily off to where the horses were tethered, with Abigail, Tilly, and Arthur in tow. His exuberance turned to caution as soon as he got close. He seemed almost hesitant to walk up to the chestnut stallion. 

“How do you name a horse?” he asked.

“There’s no rules,” said Tilly. “Mine’s called Toby. He just looks like a Toby to me.”

“What about your horse, Uncle Arthur?”

“Well, her name’s Electra, but she’s not here, kid, I’m sorry to say.” 

When Arthur was just a kid, barely literate and full of fire and vinegar, Hosea had taken it upon himself to try to give him a proper education. He’d forced Arthur to read a whole bunch of nonsense books about long-dead people talking in near-unintelligible sentences about how dreadful their lives were. Stuff like Shakespeare plays and books about France. All he’d ever gotten out of any of them were names for horses. Bodicea’s name had come from some history of England. Electra had been a character in a dusty old Greek tragedy full of murder and adultery and revenge that somehow still managed to be dull as ditchwater. Come to think of it though, a Greek tragedy might be a little too close for comfort these days. 

Jack tentatively approached the big chestnut draft. “He’s really big.”

“He’s a draft horse,” said Arthur. “He’s meant to be big and strong.”

“Can I call him Otis?”

“What?”

“Like Otis Miller, from that book you brought me!”

Arthur grinned. “Okay. Otis it is, then. Do you want to give him a carrot?”

Abigail helped hold out Jack’s hand as the newly-christened Otis gently took the treat from his palm. “Hold it firm for him, Jack,” she said. “He won’t bite.” With the naming done, she, Jack, and Tilly headed back to where the others were waiting by the oak. 

Arthur fed and groomed the rest of the horses and checked them for lameness or injuries. Mercifully, he found none. As he returned to the others, he heard Tilly tell Sadie that her arm was feeling better. John too seemed to be recovering well enough from his wound. He was still handling his shoulder gingerly -- Arthur couldn’t blame him, remembering how it had felt after the O’Driscolls shot him -- but a little of the color was coming back into his face. 

The sun had just emerged above the trees to the east. Patrols might be out, and after the misadventures of the previous night, it would be safest to put some more distance between them and the Lemoyne border. 

Sadie, apparently, had the same thought. “We ought to get moving as soon as we can. I think we should circle north through the mountains. No sense in getting caught in the open.”

“You sure?” asked John. “Might be a lot of Pinkertons up there.”

“Still easier for us to hide, I reckon. If they’re watching the plains, they’ll be able to spot us from a mile off. In the mountains, among the trees, we can hide a bit better.”

“If we go there, we’ll need to send someone scouting ahead so we don’t run into a patrol. I could--”

Abigail cut in. “Not gonna happen, John Marston. The boy ain’t gonna lose his father again. We don’t need any repeats of last night. We ain’t in that line of work anymore.” Her tone made it clear that last night’s anger hadn’t dissipated yet. “And besides, they’ll be looking for you specially.  _ And _ you’re still hurt.”

Tilly raised her good hand. “Makes the most sense for me to go. I’m the only one who can appear in public. I’ll scout ahead.” As she spoke, Arthur noted the bandage on her injured arm, its bulk visible under her sleeve. She’d already gotten shot. She shouldn’t have to keep risking everything for the rest of them. John and Abigail needed to stay safe for each other and Jack. And the Pinkertons would be looking for him and Sadie. They’d have sent around pictures of their faces…

The obvious thing occurred to him then. Probably should have occurred to him yesterday before they crossed the bridge and got themselves into trouble. There was a way to scout ahead over hard terrain, cover ground quickly, and be as good as invisible to the law. It’d even spare the horses some weight. The simplest thing in the world, the one thing he could do that no one else here could. The way to keep them safe. 

He hadn’t wanted to think about it, he guessed. Been avoiding the idea. He didn’t like it but, hell, it was the very least he could do for these people. Like at Colter, he could turn his curse to some good. He’d be a coward and a fool not to.

He clenched his fingers for stability. Bit his lip. Lifted his eyes from the ground. And said, calmly and cleanly, “I’ll do it.”

“Arthur, they’re gonna spot you quickest of any of us, and you’re supposed to be dead!” John cut in sharply. “You don’t need to go playing the hero.”

“Don’t get yourself worked up, John,” snapped Arthur. “I ain’t gonna play the hero. I’m gonna play the wolf.”

Arthur walked into the treeline, past where the horses were tethered. He’d left his boots back at camp and the morning dew slicked across his bare feet. Soon enough the dew would vanish: the sun was rising into full morning. There was no time to waste.

They’d had a quick conference after he’d announced his plan.  _ Are you sure? _ Tilly had asked, and Arthur had pretended that he was. They worked out a system of signals. He’d run ahead of them a little ways, howl back to let them know to follow or stop or run. Simple enough. No need to think about it too hard just now.

Arthur ducked behind another large oak. He took a deep breath. It made sense that this should work. He’d changed without the moon once. He’d gotten himself back to human of his own will, without the buck’s help. Still, there was a part of him that hoped it wouldn’t work. He’d try and fail and turn back and come up with another plan. It would be a much riskier plan, but it would mean he wouldn’t have to do this. 

Arthur undressed. The others would pick up his clothes after he was gone. He shut his eyes in the shadow of the oaks and fervently hoped no one else was wandering about in the woods at this time of the morning. 

Last time, when he’d changed back to human, it had been a matter of will. He’d wanted it and the wanting had brought the change out. That made things harder now. He didn’t really want to be a wolf.

He forced himself to think of the others. Sadie with that fierce expression. Tilly who hid steel beneath a gentle exterior. Abigail, strong and stubborn and loving. Jack gathering acorns that very morning. John, a dumbass sometimes, his brother always. This was to protect them. He was doing it for them.

That did the trick. He felt the change start in his bones. There was no moon to call to him, but the wolf answered nonetheless. It rose and spread outward through muscle and blood. It swept through him and carried him along in its wake, and a minute later it was done. 

Arthur stood. As usual, it took him a moment to adjust to the sudden changes in his senses. The world seemed to rush at him through his nose and ears. A crow called from a nearby tree; he flinched, ears twitching. Focus. He turned north and broke into a slow jog. 

Arthur shadowed the road, keeping it to his left. He loped gradually uphill. The ground became increasingly rocky, the grass thinning, the lowland oaks and broadleaves being replaced by mountain pines and rougher scrub. The calls of the sparrows and songbirds in the trees sounded oddly discordant -- it took him a minute to realize he wasn’t used to hearing them in wolf shape. Owls and nightjars, sure, but not daylight birds. Even the smells were different: more rabbits and turkeys, and the dusty smell of sunlight on the dirt road. 

All the while, he tried to balance being close enough to the road to watch the activity, and hidden enough in the scrub and trees that no passers-by would shoot him. Fortunately, wolves had a knack for stealth. The roads were quieter than usual. Perhaps the usual travelers had gone to ground with all the activity of the law in the last few days. He spotted a couple of horses and riders, a wagon on its way to Emerald Ranch with the shotgun rider playing the harmonica. None of them spotted him. Somewhere behind him, he knew the others would have just set off cautiously along the road in his wake. They’d be watching the road behind them, trusting him to watch the road ahead. 

The ground became steeper and steeper. The broad, rolling plains met the rocky feet of the mountains. He paused under a stand of pine trees, not far from where he and Charles had fought off a crew of Army regulars when they rescued Captain Monroe. The road forked here. To the north, the Three Sisters rose up precipitously from the trees. He checked the roads and listened carefully for approaching riders. There was nothing. He lifted his head and howled in two notes that rose and fell on the wind. In the brush a short way up the hill, an unwary bull elk bolted to the northeast. Arthur had to fight back the urge to give chase. 

On full moon nights before this, he’d sometimes given in. Well, often given in. Tracked deer and elk through woods and plains. Let the scent of prey and the hunter’s instincts take him on, coursed through the night until he saw the herd, unwary. He’d picked out the weakest. It had never been difficult: there was a scent to them, or failing that, a limp, a wound. Sometimes it was a calf. He’d drive them before him like taking sheep to market. Split one off from the group. Watch its dark eyes, rimmed with white, as it saw him. Run and run and run, chase so close he could hear its breath, its stuttering heartbeat. Run until it lost its footing or until it could run no more. Then, he’d dig in his teeth and bite. Sometimes he’d grab a hind leg first, but sooner or later, it always came down to the throat. He knew where and how long to hold to stop the breath. He knew how to tear open the skin. He knew the liver was the tastiest part. 

In the morning he’d be in desperate need of a bath and he’d have the distinct pleasure of picking bits of gristle and fur out of his teeth. He’d hate himself later, but when the moon was up, he seldom cared. It was easier not to fight it, easier to let the wolfish part of him have its way.

He had control now, though, as he’d had at Colter and again only a few days ago when he’d ran all the way from Roanoke Ridge to Copperhead Landing. He didn’t chase the elk. Although, if they ever needed meat for the group…

Not today. He sat down a short way from the road in the middle of a juniper thicket. From here, he should be hidden from any passers-by and he could keep an eye on things. 

Hoofbeats sounded on the southern road. He pricked up his ears. The wind was blowing the wrong way for him to catch the scent, but a moment later, he heard John’s voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t matter. His people were coming up the trail. 

Arthur trotted to the western fork and scratched a rough V shape in the dirt. They’d know what it meant and would follow. He was reluctant to actually come face-to-face with the others in this shape. He knew it was foolish; John had already seen him once, and sooner or later, if he kept up this scouting, it’d be bound to happen. But it didn’t have to be today. 

Feeling slightly like a coward, Arthur tracked the road going northwest. The path was narrower and rockier, so he had to stick closer to the road than he had done before. He wasn’t worried. He could hear approaching riders long before they could see him, and it was a simple matter to duck into a nearby bush or behind a tree. Sometimes the horses spooked as they passed. He just stayed still and low and waited until they were gone. None of the riders were Pinkertons or law. Just average travelers on their way to Emerald Ranch or Rhodes or Saint Denis. Not for the first time, he reflected that outlaws were lucky the law never seemed to hide their badges. It made them easy to avoid. 

The next crossroads was near the place Rains Fall had his doomed final meeting with Colonel Favours. Those scents, of horses and men and industrial Army soap and blood, had faded to faint suggestions, hints of what had happened here. The blood was the strongest scent left. It wasn’t the kind of blood scent that reminded him of hunting elk by moonlight. This was a harsher and deeper scent than that. 

Sometimes it seemed to Arthur that this whole damned continent, America, had blood soaked into every single square inch of soil, and no amount of rain would ever be enough to wash it clean. And his own hands were bloodier than most.  _ Man unleashed,  _ indeed. 

Arthur waited there, the smell of it rising from the earth and sticking in his fur. It made him want to be gone. As soon as he heard the sounds of the others approaching from behind, he scratched another trail marker into the dirt and gratefully took off. Going north would only lead them to O’Creagh’s run and eventually to the east, back into the teeth of the law. Instead, he followed the western path as it dipped and twisted and skirted beneath the outcropping of rock where someone had carved a lady’s face to some unknown purpose. He was coming up on Moonstone pond. 

He had just started the descent towards the pond, when he heard a gunshot coming from the direction of the water. A second later came the unmistakable roar of an enraged bear. Arthur stopped in his tracks. From the sounds of it, some hunter had just got very unlucky. He didn’t need to get involved. He could just call back to the other to wait and then continue on when the coast was clear. 

The sounds of something massive stomping through brush. A human scream. Arthur bounded forward. He wasn’t sure what at, exactly, except that a gun and a bear both were involved, either of which should be enough on its own for him to turn and run. But as usual he was a damn fool. He cut through the woods on the eastern side of the pond. It didn’t take him long to find the source of the commotion. 

A bear had a man pinned to the ground. Its teeth already gripped his chest. His rifle had fallen from his fingers. The bear bled from a deep wound to the shoulder, but not deep enough. The bear might live. The man was already a goner. This wasn’t like those unfortunates he’d rescued from snakebite or sprung from their own traps. There would be no saving this one. 

Not ten feet away, a gray and white shape lay kicking and thrashing on the ground. It screamed, inhuman, horrible, high and fearful. Hooves pawed at the air. He caught its scent. It was a fallen horse, tangled in its reins and trapped. The bear raised its head as the man it had killed went limp. Like any hunter, it knew the sight of weakened prey. The horse knew too. Its fear made the air thick.

The snarl started in Arthur’s chest before he was entirely aware of it. It built, like the first rumblings of a spring thaw breaking through ice, before it ripped out through his teeth. The bear swung around to look directly at him. It took half a step forward.

Arthur advanced a step of his own, head low to protect his neck. This was some truly epic idiocy, even by his standards. A bear could eat a wolf for breakfast. It outweighed him, was stronger, tougher, more terrifying in every way. He was supposed to be scouting for the others, not risking his neck for a horse. But that was only the sensible part of him. The rest was stalking forward, ears and eyes trained. 

The bear took another step forward. Arthur lunged.

He knew he needed to aim for the vulnerable parts. Go after the neck or the flank, and all he’d get would be a mouthful of fur and a quick disemboweling. The bear saw him coming and twisted its head to bite. He was faster. He got his teeth in its ear, just as he had that night near Colter when he fought the wolves off John, and yanked hard. But he wasn’t fighting other wolves this time. The bear simply shook its head and he fell hard onto the ground.

He didn’t have time to catch his wind. He scrambled up and to his feet almost before he felt the ground underneath him, and good thing too, because a swipe from the bear’s claws passed through the space he’d occupied only seconds later. He was faster, but only just. He scrambled around behind the bear. Keep forcing it to turn. Draw it away from the horse. 

The bear was unfortunately more agile than he’d hoped. He narrowly dodged another swipe from those claws, then turned tail and ran. He bolted into the woods, heading southeast away from the road -- no need to draw the beast right to the others. He’d gotten himself into this mess. He cursed himself as he heard pounding footsteps close behind him, and gaining. 

The next swipe caught him in the flank. 

It knocked him off his feet and into a boulder. The pain came a second later -- not as bad as he feared. He stood. The bear loomed over him. It knew it had him cornered. Arthur stared it in the face and growled. Not much else to do in the end. Time to find out how well he’d heal from being mauled and maybe eaten. 

Another gunshot. And another in rapid succession.

The bear swayed. Arthur couldn’t see beyond its vast shadow at whatever it was looking at, whatever humans were standing there with guns drawn. Its heavy scent filled his nose and blocked out the world. The bear stood over him, and then he smelled blood. He jumped out of the way just as it crashed to the ground, shot through the skull in two places. 

Arthur got shakily to his feet. His flank burned where the bear had clawed him, but he could already feel it healing. When he looked in the direction of the gunshots, hoping not to see Pinkertons, all he saw were John and Sadie, rifle and repeater in hand. They still had them aimed at him.

Of course. They weren’t sure it was him. He stood very still and tried to look non-threatening. 

“Arthur, if that’s you, give us a nod,” John said. Arthur complied.

Sadie shook her head. “Guess I got no choice but to believe it now. Arthur, what the hell were you thinking?”

I wasn’t fair to ask him questions like that when he couldn’t talk back. He debated what to do -- change back? continue on? -- for a moment, until the horse screamed again from near the pond. Arthur’s ears twitched involuntarily. It sounded even worse in this shape than it would to a human. He retraced his steps back through the trees. John and Sadie exchanged a glance before following him. 

The horse -- a mare, he saw and smelled that much now -- had fallen to her side. The dead hunter had tied her to a branch. In her panic when the bear attacked, she must have tried to yank her reins away, but the branch had broken instead, and she’d fallen and become tangled in the reins and sticks. She reeked of sweat and terror. Tilly and Sadie crouched around her already, knives in hand to cut the leather reins and free her. Arthur kept his distance. No doubt he’d only scare her. 

Finally, Abigail dodged the lashing hooves and got in a clean cut. The taut reins came apart with an audible snap and the horse, sensing freedom at hand, heaved her way to her feet. John snatched her bridle to keep her from bolting and started whispering to her softly. Slowly, slowly, her head began to drop, her breathing slowed, and the white-rimmed eyes lost a fraction of their panic. Sadie loosened the girth -- her saddle had been knocked off-center in her struggle. The others stood near her head, blocking her line of sight to Arthur, who had slipped behind a cluster of ferns for extra concealment.

Even drenched in foam and dirt, she was a thing of beauty. A silver dapple pinto, like the one he’d helped Albert Mason photograph. At a glance, she looked in good condition under the dirt and foam. The hunter had clearly cared for her. 

“What are we doing with this horse?” John yelled to no one in particular.

“Since Arthur apparently fought a bear for her, I reckon we keep her. We need another horse anyway,” said Sadie. “All good with you, Arthur?”

From his hideout in the ferns, Arthur nodded. Everyone was looking at him, even if they couldn’t see him entirely clearly. So much for not letting them actually see him in this shape. 

“We should move on, then. Gunshots might have attracted the wrong kind of attention. Arthur, you’re on point again. And don’t think we ain’t gonna talk about this foolishness later.”

_ Okay, boss _ , thought Arthur. He circled around the group through the trees, keen to stay out of the horses’ line of sight. Once he was clear, he bounded out of the trees and raced up the road, his heart still hammering from nearly being mauled to death, from everyone’s eyes. He had a job to do, and he’d put everyone in danger by getting distracted by a bear and a man and a horse. All his grand plans about using this, the one thing he could do, and it turned out it wasn’t much good to anyone at all. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. 

Once again, he ran, and lost himself in the wolf’s senses and tireless stride. He remembered to sweep the road for Pinkertons and to howl back the all-clear, but he let everything else fade away as the sun began to sink in the afternoon sky. 

They’d agreed to set up camp for the night in Cumberland forest, well south of Fort Wallace. Arthur reached the proposed campsite first. It was a spot not too far outside Valentine, sheltered by trees off the road. They’d been lucky and hadn’t run into any Pinkertons or Army patrols. The law must still be sweeping the eastern part of New Hanover. He howled to guide the rest of the gang in, then waited in a stand of aspen. Minutes later, the sound of trotting hoofbeats rattled down the road. Sadie, as usual, was in the lead, followed by John and Abigail on Otis, and Tilly at the rear, leading the pinto mare. Sadie brought a bundle of clothes to the tree line while the others started setting the horses at the far edge of the clearing.

The change back came quickly this time. Arthur dressed hurriedly and crossed the clearing to help. It was nearly sunset. He dug his old hat out of a saddlebag and shielded his eyes from the red light of the sinking sun.

John had tied the pinto to a tree on a long line, near a patch of fresh grass. Arthur approached her warily. While the other horses had already dropped their heads to graze, she was still on alert, ears pricked, watchful. She raised her head and stared at him as he came. Arthur pulled a carrot out of his satchel.

“Easy now, girl,” he whispered. “You’re all right.” He walked up to her softly and deliberately, no sudden movements, and held out the carrot. She sniffed at it a little warily. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “No bears here.” Her eyes softened a little at his voice. She took the carrot and stood still as he came closer. Arthur patted her neck and shoulder, stroked her on the jaw and between the eyes. The tension went out of her by degrees. 

Up close, she was even more of a beauty. White mane and tail, dapple gray and white patches on her flanks and barrel. He’d try to get a better look at her teeth later, but he guessed she couldn’t be older than eight or so. Feet in great shape. No signs of soreness. Clearly fit and well-fed. Solid bones, a deep chest, great conformation. And her eyes -- Arthur had always thought you could tell a lot about a horse by their eyes. Hers were blue, but not the blue of the Count or Baylock. He’d always thought both those stallions had a cold, hard look to their eyes, like ice-water. This horse’s eyes, though, had the softness and inquisitiveness he liked to see.

After a few minutes of Arthur’s attention, she looked about to lower her head and start grazing with the others. At last, he gave her a final pat on the shoulder and went to join the others. 

“No fire again tonight?” Jack was asking.

“No, but maybe tomorrow,” Abigail replied.

“That’s what you said last night!” 

Sadie tapped Arthur on the shoulder. “A word?”

He turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Sadie. I know it was stupid of me.”

“Yeah, it was. You were supposed to be looking out for Pinkertons. We’re lucky we didn’t run into any. You said you weren’t gonna play the hero.”

“I know, I know.” Arthur threw up his hands. “I just couldn’t leave it. I had to do something. It’s like…” He trailed off, lost for words.

That was the thing. On his long solo rides through the country, Arthur had lost count of the number of strangers in need who he’d stopped to help. Men bit by snakes, women whose horses had collapsed, kidnap victims, escaped prisoners, homesteaders being robbed by O’Driscolls or Lemoyne Raiders, even an injured man he’d carried to Saint Denis who’d ended up needing his arm sawed off. He’d gone out of his way, given time and money and sometimes blood for people he’d never see again. It had felt like the least he could do. Like the only thing to do. And yet it had also felt like nothing, set against all the killing and robbing he did in the rest of his life. Like a feather balanced against a lead weight. So he’d never talked about it to the other gang members. Most of them wouldn’t understand. The few that  _ would _ understand were even worse. They’d come asking questions that Arthur didn’t care to answer.

“Like what?” Sadie prompted.

“It weren’t right to just leave. I got a lot to answer for and maybe if I could… Never mind. It won’t happen again.”

“It turned out all right, didn’t it?” asked John. “We even got a decent horse out of it. I’d say you did good.” 

“Oh, and of course, as long as everything turns out okay, it doesn’t matter how we got here?” Abigail rounded on him. He stepped back, raising his hands.

“I just think Arthur risked his life for -- for all of us, I mean. He could’ve…”

“Risked his life for a horse, you mean,” said Tilly.

“I’m just saying, we should…”

Arthur had to interrupt. “If y’all could stop debating the foolhardiness of my actions? First off, I wasn’t risking my life. Nothing kills me when I’m like that. You know that, John. Second, it  _ was _ a stupid thing to do, I’ll admit. Third, thank you all for saving my life. And finally, we got out of there okay and what’s done is done. But we all have to learn from our mistakes. John, it was you who told me that.”

He said it, and it seemed to satisfy the others. It just didn’t quite satisfy him. He was still restless, undecided. Looking across the clearing, though, he saw the solid, elegant shape of the silver dapple pinto cropping the grass. It  _ had _ been stupid, but maybe it was stupid in the same way saving those kidnap victims or taking on robbers on behalf of homesteaders had been. Maybe. 

After everyone settled down, Arthur sat on a convenient fallen log and sketched the pinto mare in his journal.  _ Found her at Moonstone Pond. Saved her from being a bear’s lunch. The women weren’t too pleased with me. They and John had to come save me, and I suppose we all could have been ambushed by Pinkertons since I wasn’t scouting ahead. But we weren’t. And now we have a fine new horse. I am not entirely sure what I should have done.  _

He glanced up to check whether he’d got the mare’s markings right. She was watching him, ears up, unafraid, curious. Arthur couldn’t hold back a smile.

Shouts roused Arthur from sleep. He couldn’t make it out immediately, but it sounded like men, a number of them, angry and far too close. He couldn’t see: clouds had covered the moon. 

Then, he heard Sadie yell, “Everybody up! The army’s here!”

Arthur reached for his rifle. His fingers closed on the grip. And the clearing erupted with gunfire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Electra’s name comes from a play, conveniently titled _Electra,_ by Sophocles. She and her brother Orestes conspire to murder their mom and stepdad. So, yeah. 
> 
> Also, apparently there are no geldings in the RDR universe. References to gelding tongs, yes. But I have yet to see any actual real live geldings in the game. Accordingly, everyone's riding mares and stallions here.
> 
> Most importantly: the times are wild, folks. Take care of yourselves, and if you're able, take care of the people around you too <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Things have gotten... interesting in the world since I last posted. I thought social distancing would make it easier to write, but so far the opposite has been true. It's gonna take a while to settle into a rhythm here. In the meantime, here's another chapter.

“Jack! Get down!” John yelled. Arthur scrambled to his feet. In the darkness he heard gunfire and hoofbeats. He aimed his rifle into the dark. At first, he saw nothing but the thrash and snap of branches being trampled. Then, a dark figure burst into the clearing. Arthur could barely make out the shape of a man on a horse. 

“Surrender!” he barked. “By the authority of the United States Government --” His order was broken by an undignified yelp as someone grabbed him from one side and hauled him off his horse. A few muffled thumps followed, the sounds of a practiced and efficient beating, and then another figure swung into the saddle. Arthur knew the set of those shoulders. It was John. From his spot in the saddle, he aimed his revolver into the trees.

There were more of them coming out of the woods now. Arthur couldn’t tell how many, but they were shooting at John. He fired off a couple of revolver shots back at the soldiers. 

“You bastards! Come and get me, then!” He dug in his heels and the horse leapt into a mad gallop. He tore across the clearing in the near-blackness. He screamed and fired again and again. “Come on!”

Several of the dark shapes on horseback peeled off. They were chasing him, and Arthur understood now that John was trying to buy them time. He was taking his chance to play the hero. 

He fired his rifle at one of the mounted shapes. He missed with his first shot, but luckily, the soldier couldn’t see any better in the darkness than Arthur. The return shot missed wildly, and Arthur lined up his second shot. He focused. Time slowed and details stood out in the night. The moon, though hidden behind heavy clouds, gave off a faint light. He lined up his shots, one-two-three, and fired. Three shapes dropped from their saddles. 

A hand clutched at his wrist. He spun around, expecting one of the fallen Army men. What he saw instead was Abigail, eyes wide. Beside her, he could make out the small, trembling shape of Jack. 

“Stay close,” he said. He turned and fired again. From across the clearing, he could hear Sadie swearing at the soldiers. She was still alive. She fired her repeater and one of the last remaining soldiers fell. Arthur took out the last one, and then it was done.

“Everyone okay?” Arthur called out. He squeezed Abigail’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” came Tilly’s voice. 

“All clear, but we have to get out of here,” Sadie said. 

“Where’s John?” cried Abigail.

“He’ll find us,” said Arthur. “He knows where we’re going.”  _ Dammit John,  _ he thought,  _ I went to all that trouble saving you; don’t get yourself killed now.  _ Already Arthur was on his feet, grabbing his bedroll. Tilly lit her lantern, just enough for them to see what they were doing as they hurried to saddle the horses. 

Without thinking, Arthur headed for the silver dapple pinto mare. “I hope you’re ready to ride, girl,” he told her. He put on the saddle, tightened the cinch, and slipped the bit between her teeth. She took it willingly. Maybe she could sense the urgency in his voice and hands. 

Abigail had climbed onto Otis, holding Jack in front of her. Tilly was mounted on Toby and Sadie with Bob. Sadie took the lead once again, and Arthur, by unspoken agreement, waited until the others followed her. He was riding drag, his customary position when he’d ridden with the gang: in back, watchful for pursuers. The pinto mare’s ears flicked about. He patted her on the shoulder and kept his rifle in hand. 

They raced down the road that way, headed southeast. Arthur scanned the treeline behind them, keeping his finger on the trigger. But he couldn’t see any pursuers. He just hoped John had managed to lose the Army. 

They tracked around the eastern side of Valentine as the clouds started to break. The first hint of morning light came up from the east as they passed within hailing distance of Horseshoe Overlook. That had been a good campsite. Things had been okay there, Arthur supposed, as much as they could have been after that mess in Blackwater. Morale had been high. Dutch had seemed relatively grounded. Micah had been in jail for most of it -- Arthur had taken his sweet time before breaking him out. Now, he wished he’d flat-out refused when Dutch ordered him to go spring him in Strawberry. Of course, though, if Arthur hadn’t gone, no doubt Dutch would have sent Bill or Javier in his place, and things might have been even more bloody, if that were possible. 

Still. If only they’d hung Micah. If only he’d never joined up with them. If only Dutch hadn’t gone crazy. If only Arthur had been a better, wiser man. 

He barely allowed himself to breathe until they crossed the river near Painted Sky and bore into West Elizabeth. Nobody was chasing them. Sadie took them through the river a ways so they couldn’t be tracked. The horses trotted through the shallow water, ears pricked, as dawn bloomed through the eastern sky. Arthur allowed himself to breathe a little. He whispered to the pinto mare about what a good girl she was. She was sound and tough, even after her encounter with a bear. 

As they climbed out of the water and turned west towards Big Valley, Tilly spoke up. “What’s are we going to do now? The Army found us.”

Arthur sighed. “I know. I ain’t sure they know who we were, though. It was pretty dark. Sadie, how did they find us?”

“Bastards was riding through on patrol. One of them must have spotted me, though I don’t know how they managed it. They came riding up and I knew they was gonna search the camp. I figured it was better to wake you all up so we could fight back, ‘cause if they caught us, they weren’t gonna let us go.”

“Okay,” said Arthur. “Let’s hope they didn’t recognize any of us and just thought we were O’Driscolls or bandits or some such.”

“We  _ are _ bandits, though,” said Tilly.

“Fair enough.”

“No, we ain’t bandits anymore.” That was Abigail, her voice forceful. “We ain’t doing things that way. When John gets back… When he gets back, we’ll all settle down and live decent lives. At least, the three of us will.”

“That sounds real nice, Abigail,” said Sadie, “but for now, we’re wanted. We’ve got to do what we have to in order to survive. Some things is just necessary.”

“That sounds familiar,” snapped Abigail. “Sounds just like what Dutch would say.”

Sadie actually flinched a little. Then, “So you think we shouldn’t’ve broken John out of Sisika? You think we shouldn’t’ve come and got you from Milton in Van Horn? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying we need to put all that behind us!”

“Well forgive me if some of us can’t just move on at the drop of a hat! Forgive me if some of us hold onto things.”

Arthur glanced between them in confusion. The argument had shifted out from under him, and he wasn’t really sure what they were fighting about now. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to get them to focus, but Tilly beat him to it. 

“Let’s all of us take a breath and keep riding. We’ve got a long way to go.”

Arthur gave her a grateful look. He never had the knack for playing peacemaker. The ride continued in frosty silence. Arthur concentrated on scanning for pursuers. He saw none. This would have been a good time for him to be on four legs, scouting ahead or lagging behind to keep watch, but there was no time for them to stop. Every second counted. They had to rely on speed above stealth. 

They rode uphill and into the pines. Deer and squirrels fled from them. The steady three-part rhythm of cantering hooves was broken by bugling elk and croaking ravens. Thick bracken and raspberry bushes lined the sides of the road. Clouds gathered in the east -- yet another storm blowing in off Flat Iron Lake. Arthur could only hope they’d reach the ranch before it hit. If there was some good to it, though, it would make tracking them that much more difficult. 

The road swung north and to the west, the country opened into the expanse of Big Valley. Despite everything, some part of Arthur was thrilled to see it: the great alpine meadow with its lupine and clover floor, deer and pronghorn and elk browsing, the resident herd of wild horses in the distance, the peak of Mount Shann rising to the south and the craggy snow-capped Grizzlies to the north and west. The babbling stream in the middle, spread out like a silver-blue braid. The cry of a hawk far overhead. He heard a bear bellow in the distance, but there was no accompanying scream this time, either of horse or man. The silver dapple pinto pricked her ears at that, but steadied soon enough with a soft word from Arthur. 

Sadie led them by the road on the northern side of the valley. Arthur spotted the turnoff to Wilson’s cabin, where he’d met that strange old lady who’d apparently taken to receiving goods from robbers off the road. They’d have to steer clear of the place. It was too close to the ranch for comfort. 

There was that danger, and plenty others. They were in true backcountry here, with all that implied. He’d run into a grizzly in one of the cabins near here. Cougars had nearly mauled him in Black Bone Forest just to the south. He’d seen wolves, real ones, in these meadows. This was one of the last wild places, intact in all its beauty and viciousness. 

Still, no place was truly safe, and this was about as remote as it could get this side of the Grizzlies. With winter coming, the passes would be blocked. Unless they fancied ending up like the famous Donner party, they had to settle somewhere, and this was two states away from Beaver Hollow and all their troubles. The law was unlikely to find them here, so long as they didn’t track them after the fight last night. 

At last, Arthur made out the fence and outbuildings of Hanging Dog Ranch. He trotted up to Sadie, who halted on Bob and was staring at the place. He dug through his satchel and brought out his binoculars. At first glance, everything looked quiet. No obvious signs of habitation. He didn’t see the corpses that he and Sadie had left behind, though. Someone, or maybe some animals, had been there since that final showdown with the remnants of the O’Driscolls. 

Arthur wordlessly passed the binoculars to Sadie. As she surveyed the ranch, he studied her expression. What was she thinking? Why had she wanted to come back here? The whole experience of taking down the O’Driscolls might have been cathartic for her, something she’d needed to do, but it certainly didn’t seem like one that would recommend the place to her as a winter campsite. Her face gave nothing away. He’d have to find a way to ask. 

“I reckon I should go and take a look, make sure it’s empty,” said Arthur. 

Sadie, after a moment, passed him back his binoculars. “I’m coming too.”

“Tilly, Abigail, wait here. You see anyone coming, you run. Don’t wait.” Arthur readied his rifle and asked the pinto mare to canter. A second later, Sadie followed on Bob. They crossed the meadow, splashed through the stream, and sent a flock of geese honking into flight. 

“Slow up,” said Arthur as they neared the fence. They both took back to a steady trot. Still nothing moving. Arthur had an especially close eye on that barn. If he were setting an ambush here, that’s where he’d wait, scoped rifle at the ready. He pulled out his binoculars for another quick look, trusting Sadie to cover him. He saw nothing. When he glanced at Sadie, she shook her head slightly. Nothing moving. 

Arthur and Sadie rode side-by-side through the gates of Hanging Dog Ranch. The burnt-out remains of the old woodshed were still there, apparently untouched. The ragged tents and rusty covered wagons were in the same places they had been weeks ago, when they’d been here last. Many of the corpses were gone, but as they rode towards the barn and house, Arthur could see a few still lying on the ground, ones the scavengers hadn’t carried away. They’ve have to clear those out before Jack got here. Still, it was no worse than Shady Belle had been when they’d moved in there. 

“Looks quiet,” said Sadie. “Arthur, you wanna go check the barn? I’ll look in the house.”

“Just like last time?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. But Sadie…”

“What?”

He didn’t know how to ask her. What had drawn her here, of all places? But words failed him, as usual, and he dipped the brim of his hat so he wouldn’t have to look right at her. Funny, how many times they’d saved each other’s lives, and still there were some questions too big to be spoken aloud. 

“See you in a minute,” he said. He dismounted and hitched the pinto mare near the door. Rifle in hand, he opened the barn door. 

“Anyone in here? Best come out now!” he yelled in his most intimidating outlaw voice. A flash of white moved in the corner of his eye and he spun around, only to see a startled barn owl take flight from the hayloft and soar out the upper window. 

Well. That answered that question. A barn owl wouldn’t be hanging around if there were people coming in and out of the barn all the time. He still searched the barn, but no longer worried about what he’d find. Just some owl pellets and dead mice. 

He paused by the pinto mare on his way out of the barn to give her a pat on the shoulder. The door to the cabin stood ajar. He picked his way through the wagons and tents, then followed Sadie inside. 

“Sadie?” he called out as he entered. There was no reply. 

The ground floor was as he remembered it: small sitting room to one side, kitchen and dining room table to the other. Arthur climbed the stairs. Sadie was kneeling to one side of the landing. She was staring at the floor, or more precisely, at a familiar dark brown stain there. 

“We’ll have to clean that up before Jack sees it,” she said flatly. 

“We’ve had a fair bit of practice,” Arthur replied. 

“I suppose.”

This was his chance. “Sadie… why’d you want to come here?”

“It was the only place as made sense. Couldn’t go east, couldn’t go south. We’d never get over the mountains at this time of year. Needed enough space for all of us and the horses. There aren’t a lot of places like that. Could have found some cabin in the woods, but I don’t fancy sharing a ten-foot shack with all of y’all all winter. No offense.”

“You know what I’m asking.”

Sadie drew in a deep breath. “Okay. Yeah, I know. What if I told you I don’t want to talk about it right now?”

“That’s fair.” Arthur knelt next to her and inspected the bloodstain. It had really sunken in. He doubted any amount of scrubbing would get it out at this point. All at once he recalled the overpowering scent of blood rising from the earth, a wave ready to drown the continent. Blood on his hands, on Sadie’s, on the floor. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. Now was not the time. “Barn’s clear.” He patted her on the shoulder. “I reckon we should call the others. Maybe have Abigail and Jack hang back a bit till we can get this place cleaned up a bit.”

“Yeah…” Sadie seemed to be considering something. Then she turned her gaze on him. Arthur knew that look. It was the look she’d had in Rhodes when she’d bought a new wardrobe and picked a fight with the Lemoyne Raiders. It meant she’d had an  _ idea,  _ and with this woman, that was a daunting prospect. 

“Arthur, why don’t you take another look round as a wolf? You could smell out the place, make certain no one’s been here recently. It’d be safer.”

Arthur sighed. He didn’t like it, but she was right. “Am I gonna be doing this on command now?”

“Of course. Just like any old hunting dog. You do that and I’ll start cleaning all this up.”

Arthur prowled the perimeter as Sadie started work on burying bodies. He scented up and down the fence line. No recent human scents. Just decay and the traces of scavengers coming to feed. The place really was as abandoned as it seemed to be.

He finished his second pass behind the cabin and glanced up to see Sadie standing near one of the old wagons. She gave him a wave.

“Having fun there, Arthur?”

It still felt deeply strange to have people, Sadie, actually  _ waving _ at him when he was in this shape. All those years he’d avoided human contact under the moon and kept his curse a secret. But here she was, greeting him like this was normal. Like this was nothing. It made his head spin. 

He had to figure out how to respond. After a moment, he gave an un-wolflike nod. 

“Find anything concerning?”

Arthur shook his head. 

“All right then.” Sadie hefted her shovel and got back to work.

Arthur had stowed his clothes behind the barn. He turned to go back, change, and get dressed. He was halfway there when the wind changed, blowing now from the north rather than the east. It carried a new scent, the scent of wolf. 

Arthur felt his hackles rise involuntarily. A pack of wild wolves was nearby. Not right on top of him; he wasn’t in danger of being attacked today, but he’d have to be careful. Tonight would mark the fourth night since he’d escaped down the mountain under a waxing third quarter moon. In a few days, the full moon would rise, and he’d find out whether or not it would still call him into wolf shape. If it did, he’d have to steer clear of the local pack. 

There was always a complication. Just one more thing to keep track of, on top of the law, and Dutch and Micah, and John having run off. 

Nothing to do but get started. He changed behind the barn and went to help Sadie.

By sunset, Arthur had helped Tilly and Sadie bury the rest of the bodies and set up his bedroll in the sitting room near the cabin door. Sadie was just across the way in the dining room. They’d put Tilly upstairs near Abigail and Jack. A convenient rug covered the stain on the floorboards. 

“When John gets here,” Tilly had said, “we’ll get some curtains for you all. Get some privacy.” Abigail had swallowed hard and nodded. Jack, dazed by the last few days of running and shooting, was sitting in the corner playing with a thimble and a set of cigarette cards Arthur had given him. 

They settled the horses in the barn. Arthur and Sadie had given each one a long grooming. Arthur had heated up oatcakes in warm water, cut up some carrots and apples, and fed each horse a warm mash. He spent extra time with the pinto mare. She’d been through it just like they all had, but they’d made it here together. 

Sadie had noticed him lingering with the new mare. “I guess she’s yours, Arthur. You did fight a bear for her.”

Arthur smiled for the first time that day. “Not the first dumb thing I did for a lady.” 

“What’ll you call her? She’s yours, so don’t just ask Jack to name her.”

He studied her, those clear blue eyes, the vivid white and splashed gray coat. The name came to him quickly. Not imaginative, not by a long stretch, but it fit like a glove. “Moonstone.”

That night, they lit a fire in a real fireplace for the first time since Lakay. Abigail helped Jack strike the first sparks with flint and tinder. They heated up a few cans of corned beef and beans, with canned strawberries for desert. 

“You can really taste the tin,” Sadie remarked. 

“It’s still better than Pearson’s,” said Tilly.

“I can go hunting tomorrow,” Arthur offered. He’d be glad to ride out for a bit, think things over, clear his head. 

“Stay out of trouble,” Abigail said. Jack was curled up in her arms, half asleep as they sat on the battered old couch. “We already got enough problems.”

“Okay. I’ll keep an eye out for John. He should be getting in soon.”

“Yeah.” Abigail uncorked a bottle of whiskey and took a shot. Arthur couldn’t blame her. Indeed, he motioned for her to pass the bottle around. 

“Look,” Abigail said after a moment. “It ain’t that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for us, Arthur, Sadie, and Tilly. We’d be dead without you all. It’s just that… I don’t want that life no more. I don’t want it for Jack. He’s gonna have something better than this. He’s gonna have a real life. No running, no hiding. He ain’t gonna end up in jail or at the end of a rope. He’ll make something for himself. But first, I’ve got to give him that chance.”

“I know, Abigail,” said Sadie. Arthur exhaled. Whatever that fight had been about between Abigail and Sadie this morning, they seemed to have come to an understanding. 

Tilly said, “I think I’ll ride to the general store at Wallace Station tomorrow, get the lay of things, maybe get some more supplies in. For now, I’m beat. I’m turning in. ”

“Us too.” Abigail stood, carrying a still-dozing Jack. After they climbed the stairs, Arthur and Sadie were left alone by the dying light from the fireplace. Neither was in a talkative mood. Soon after that, Arthur banked the fire. Exhaustion had started to hit him, as it sometimes did: he’d go without sleep for days, then feel sleepiness hit him like a sledgehammer. He was too tired to worry about the law. Not quite too tired, though, to worry about John as he lay down on his bedroll by the door, rifle within reach, listening for bears or riders or gunshots out in the night. 

All he heard, though, was the slow, gentle creeping of rain on the roof. That storm from the east had finally blown in. At least this time, they had a roof over their heads. 

When he dreamed, it was confused fragments: bloody wolves, smiling Dutch, laughing Micah, a statue-still golden buck. The scent of gunpowder. Winter reaching down from the north, coming closer by the day. And John shouting, riding away, in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take care, everyone. Things are scary right now and no one has all the answers, but we'll get there <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Apologies for the long break -- it's been a wild few weeks. This chapter is a bit shorter than normal and not a huge amount happens, but it should set things up heading forward.

The rain kept up past dawn. When Arthur headed out to the barn to check on the horses, he nearly sprinted between the buildings, as despite his coat and hat, the weather was foul enough that not even Arthur wanted to linger outside. It was a particular kind of cold rain common in the mountains in autumn: heavy, nearly icy, and gusting one way and another with the wind. He darted through the barn doors gratefully. 

He climbed into the barn’s hayloft, picked his way through the owl droppings, and looked out through the big window. Not that there was much to see: the storm had brought mist that settled over the valley. He could scarcely see past the fence line. Hopefully it would keep them hidden from any passers-by. 

He climbed out of the hayloft and went to feed the horses. They were running low on oats; he hoped the rain would let up soon so Tilly could make it to the general store. For now, the horses were settled in their stalls. They were dozing when he came in, but as soon as he brought the feed out, it was all pricked ears and nickering. He poured some grain for each and threw in a flake of hay. At least this ought to be a useful break for the horses, who’d carried them across three states in the past few days. 

With all the horses fed and content, Arthur dashed back to the cabin through the pelting rain. As he pulled the door shut behind him, he took a moment to be thankful that they were not camped out in leaky tents anymore. A solid floor, four walls, and a roof. They hadn’t had that since Shady Belle -- although, even then, plenty of gang members had slept outside. As Dutch’s senior gun, Arthur had benefited from certain perks, like his own room with a sturdy cot instead of a bedroll under a canvas awning. 

Not anymore. They were all in this together now, him and these survivors. No more hierarchy. 

The ground floor was quiet as he took off his soaked jacket and hat. Sadie was still sleeping by the door. He moved quietly so as not to wake her. Then he sat by the sitting room window in the rainy gray light and took out his journal. He made a rough sketch of the exterior of the cabin -- he’d fill in the details later when he could get another look at it without getting drenched. Then he flipped to a new page.

_ Hanging Dog Ranch _

_ We have found our way to Hanging Dog. Or at least, some of us have. John drew some of the Army off us yesterday morning. Haven’t seen him since. Starting to get worried. We shall see whether we have to go out looking for him. Abigail and Jack have buried him enough times already. _

_ I have been changing without the moon. Something to do with nearly dying and maybe that buck, whatever the hell it is. I scouted ahead through the Grizzlies and nearly got myself mauled by one. Then, yesterday, Sadie asked me to check the scents around the perimeter. The others seem to have accepted all this without much trouble. I had plenty of trouble accepting it back when it started. Very confusing.  _

He flipped back to the sketch of the buck he’d started a couple days previously. He thought he might be able to finish it, but one look at the blank space where its face should be discouraged him. He’d never get those eyes right. 

“Morning, Arthur,” Tilly whispered from behind him.

Arthur closed his journal. She was coming downstairs. “Hi, Tilly.”

She joined him at the sitting room window where they could talk quietly without waking Sadie. “Still raining, I see.”

“You still want to ride to Wallace Station?”

“I’m not sure. It don’t look pleasant out there, but we need supplies. And we might be able to get some news of John, or at least pick up a newspaper.”

Arthur sighed. “Gone and got himself in trouble again.”

“He did a brave thing,” said Tilly.

“Brave and reckless.”

“He saved us, Arthur. You think we could have fought off all those soldiers at once?”

“He’s got a woman and a child who need him.”

“And if he hadn’t galloped off like he did, Abigail and Jack might be dead or in jail, along with the rest of us. You did the same thing, Arthur, up on that mountain. You would have died for him.”

“I didn’t die. And anyway I’ve got a lot less to lose.”

“Don’t you start with that. We’ve all got a lot to lose.”

“Even now? After all that mess?” 

“Especially now. We’ve got to hold on to those of us who are left.” Tilly’s voice was adamant. “Listen, Dutch did right by me. I had nothing and he gave me a place to live, protected me, taught me to read. Did the same for you from what I’ve heard. I don’t really know how all that fell apart, but it did. He won’t be taking care of us any more. So now, we’ve got to take care of ourselves, and each other.”

Arthur allowed himself to smile. “That’s very wise, Miss Tilly.”

“I know.” Then, “Can I ask you something, Arthur?”

“Sure.”

“How come you never told us that you’re a werewolf?”

Arthur dropped his gaze to the floor. He wished he’d been wearing his hat so he could hide beneath the brim. So. They were having this conversation now. He supposed he should have known it was coming: the questions, the doubts, the  _ how could you _ s. “Would you have believed me? I heard you talking to Swanson at Shady Belle when he said he’d seen a ghost in the bayou. You didn’t sound too credulous then.” 

Tilly laughed. “That was until I saw one of my own. Can’t go questioning what your own eyes see or you’ll come all to pieces.”

“You saw a ghost?”

“Yeah. On the old battlefield near Shady Belle, not long before we left there. I was riding out just to get away from Miss Grimshaw--” Her voice caught a little. Arthur had told her what had happened to Susan, and it was still a fresh grief for both of them. “Just to get away. It was getting dark and I heard cannon fire even though there weren’t no working cannons about. And then I saw a soldier on the field. He was dressed in blue.”

“Ah, so a Yankee then.”

“I could see he wasn’t  _ there, _ but he was there all the same, anyway, if that makes any sense. I was scared, but mostly just sad for him. He was lost all that long way from his home.”

Only Tilly would think to feel sorry for a ghost. And not many people would just  _ accept _ seeing a ghost. Most would try to explain it away, deny the evidence of their senses, write it off as drinking or dreaming. Not Tilly, though. Arthur looked at her squarely this time. He was rewarded with a soft smile.

Tilly went on. “You hear lots of stories. Not just ghosts. Everyone’s heard a werewolf story or two. They say there’s a vampire in Saint Denis.”

Arthur managed a shaky laugh. “There  _ was _ a vampire in Saint Denis. Or at least, a feller who claimed to be a vampire. Though I of all people shouldn’t question things like that. Anyway, I ran into him. I reckon he’d been feeding off that whole city for some time.”

Tilly’s eyes went wide. “You… you met a vampire?”

“I did. He’s dead now. Properly dead, I mean.” He’d found the vampire in a back alley, crouched over the body of a victim. The creature had looked like something out of a dime horror novel: pale, dressed in black, pointed ears, long teeth. He’d chuckled to see Arthur standing at the other end of the alley. “So, you found me,” he’d said. “Oh, and isn’t that precious. A little wolf pup! Run along, little wolf. This is no place for you.” Arthur had been disquieted, to say the least, to be so easily picked out for what he was. But within minutes, a solid shotgun blast had, mercifully, ended the matter of the vampire. It seemed the undead couldn’t heal as werewolves did. 

He chanced a look up at Tilly to see how she was handling all this. He sometimes forgot with Tilly what a steely core she had. He remembered meeting her when she was just a kid, newly run off from the Foreman brothers and fending for herself, or trying to, at least. She’d been so young and vulnerable, and it had been a joy to watch her play around in camp, learn to read, start to smile and laugh again. But she’d grown up, and now Tilly Jackson was not to be underestimated. Indeed, she wasn’t recoiling from him in horror. She was actually leaning forward, eyes bright with interest.

“Anyway, Arthur, this world is full of strange things. I’ve seen them. It’s gonna take a lot stranger things than werewolves to scare me. And more than that, I know you. We all do. It don’t matter to us what you get up to when the moon is out.” She squeezed his shoulder. “It’s like I said. We’ve got to take care of each other.”

Arthur smiled, absurdly grateful. “Thank you, Miss Tilly.”

She gave him one final squeeze, then let go. “I do believe the rain’s slowing up. I better head out soon if I want to get back by dark.”

Sadie stirred on her bedroll in the kitchen. For a woman as guarded as she was, she sure did sleep deeply. “What’s going on?” she asked as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. 

“I’m leaving as soon as I get some breakfast,” said Tilly. With that, she was in the kitchen and rummaging through their stock of canned goods. 

“You want any company?” asked Arthur.

“You can’t show your face anywhere near civilization right now,” Sadie cut in. “I’ll go. I’m wanted, but not that wanted. You can ride around here and scare off the bears or something.”

“Okay, okay.” Arthur set about getting some breakfast of his own. A couple of stale biscuits later, he helped Tilly and Sadie draw up a shopping list, including a percolator, more canned goods, a decent bow and arrows, feed for the horses, more whiskey, and extra ammunition. Arthur kept accounts in his journal. Between what he’d saved up and the US Army payroll sack he’d foised on Tilly, they’d started out with plenty of money. Now, though, with five adults, once John came back, and a whole winter to get through… 

Things would be tight. They’d need to hunt, that much was obvious. In the spring, they could get the hell out of here. 

And go where? Tahiti? Arthur had no idea. He wasn’t used to making long-range plans. He’d always left that to Dutch and Hosea. It was awfully late in life that he was learning to think for himself.

Abigail rose in time to see Tilly and Sadie off. Jack was still asleep, and Arthur was all too happy about it. Poor kid deserved a rest and then some. He hoped his dreams were pleasant. 

Abigail sat at the kitchen table and stared out the window at the wind-blown mist. The rain had stopped, as Tilly had predicted, but it was still a damp and dreary day. She fiddled with a pincushion, absently stabbing it with a needle. 

“I think that thing’s pretty thoroughly killed,” said Arthur in an attempt to break the silence.

Abigail looked up, startled. “What is it, Arthur?” she snapped. 

“Nothing. Sorry.” She was obviously in one of her unsociable moods. She used to get like this after she fought with John. Now, though, Arthur wished John were here for her to fight with. He reached into his satchel for his journal and stared futilely at the sketch of the buck. 

After a moment, Abigail made an exasperated noise. “Oh, all right. I’m just so… so sick of this. So sick of wondering every time he leaves if I’ll ever see him again.”

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur. 

“Why did he have to be the hero?”

“It should have been me,” Arthur told her. “I should have drawn them off us.”

“You already gave your life for his, Arthur.”

“I didn’t, though,” he said, for the second time that morning. “I guess I’m lucky that way.”

“You thought you were about to, and that’s enough.” She impaled the pincushion one more time with special malice. “I just want a normal life. Is that too much to ask? For the boy, and for John, and for me?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur honestly. “I gave up hope of that for myself a long time ago. But if anyone deserves it, it’s you. And I’ll try to give it to you.” 

He felt spectacularly useless at that moment: no idea where John was, left at home while Tilly and Sadie went to town, hiding inside from the rain. With the gang, he’d always kept himself busy. He’d always had something going on: hunting, robbing, chasing leads, bounty work, patrolling. Something. He drove himself to it so one could justly accuse him of not pulling his weight. He was reminded of that cabin in Colter: the cold, the feeling of being trapped inside, Abigail’s icy anger, and a missing John. 

Arthur needed something to do. He couldn’t stand to stay there inside with Abigail, feeling helpless and confused. He’d thought about going hunting, but it didn’t feel right leaving Abigail and Jack here on their own. Not that Abigail couldn’t handle herself; she’d more than proven that a dozen times over. But there was also Jack to worry about. They’d need all the protection they could get. So, as the rain let up, he went outside and split firewood using an axe they’d found around the place. He checked on the horses and took a look around the edges of the ranch, until he was satisfied that no unwelcome visitors were nearby. He picked up some of the random debris of the gang that used to live here -- old canvas, broken wagon wheels, empty cans-- and sorted them into piles to be reused, burned, or buried. He didn’t rush, just worked steadily and deliberately. The sun started to sink; the deer and elk made their slow, browsing way across the valley. A hawk dove to snag a chipmunk from the edge of the woods. He kept an eye out for the big game he knew lived in this valley: the wolves, bears, and cougars. He saw none. Still, it wouldn’t do to go out of the ranch unarmed. For wild predators, and for human ones. 

He was just getting to what he thought had been the O’Driscolls’ old sheep pen when he caught a glimpse of riders on the eastern road. He’d brought the rifle from the cabin and swung it off his shoulder as he jogged towards to meet the riders. But it didn’t take him long to recognize Tilly and Sadie, riding back with parcels tied to the backs of their saddles. Arthur exhaled, put the rifle away, and gave them a welcoming wave.

“How’d it go?” he asked as they approached the gate.

“Fine. No problems. Didn’t see nobody out on the road.” Sadie dismounted. 

“We got some more supplies,” said Tilly. “Feed for the horses and food for us.”

“Any news of John?” 

Tilly and Sadie shook their heads, faces grave. Arthur sighed. “Dammit.”

“Hey, we’ll find him,” said Sadie. “You and I can head out tomorrow. Start looking.”

Arthur nodded. There was no one he’d rather ride with, even if it meant facing down every soldier and Pinkerton this side of the Lannahechee. He’d been ready to die for John, Abigail, and Jack. He was probably still ready, and Sadie knew it.

He helped unload the horses and settle them in the barn. By the time he entered the cabin, Tilly and Sadie had finished telling Abigail that there was still no sign of John. She was sitting on the couch near the door and holding her head in her hands. 

“We’ll go get him, Abigail,” said Arthur. “Me and Sadie.” He thought of Colter for a moment, how Dutch had to talk him into going looking for John. No lecture needed this time. 

“It won’t be the first time Arthur and me got him out of trouble. We’ve done it before,” said Sadie.

“God forbid you have to break him out of Sisika again.” Abigail’s voice was tight with mingled exhaustion and anger and fear. Tilly squeezed her shoulder. 

“I hope it don’t come to that, but we’ll do what we got to,” Sadie said. “We’re getting you your man back.” She met Arthur’s eyes and he nodded back. 

“And probably he just got turned around on the way here,” he said, desperately wanting to lighten the mood a little. “We’ve just got to find him and point him in the right direction. Like how it was at Colter, except without all the snow.”

Abigail didn’t look back at him. He could hear how hollow his words sounded in the creeping dusk, with Jack upstairs wondering where his father had gone. 

They agreed on a plan. It was basic enough. Tilly would stay with Abigail and Jack for protection. They’d keep a low profile at Hanging Dog. Arthur and Sadie would ride out the following morning. They’d start in Strawberry -- the nearest major town and therefore the most likely source of news of John, since the Wallace Station general store hadn’t heard anything. Sadie would go into town as she was less wanted than Arthur, and they’d hope that Strawberry was far enough west that the bounty hunters hadn’t come there looking for her. They’d scope out the country around Owanjila and Mount Shann for signs of John.

If they couldn’t find him there, Arthur and Sadie would ride north to Cumberland forest, back to where they’d had the fight with the Army. Arthur would check the place out on four legs and try to pick up a trail. Then they’d do their best to track John. Arthur didn’t have much hope of that; the scent would be cold by now, especially with all the rain, but they had to try. If all else failed, they’d scout along the roads from Calumet Ravine on down to the Heartlands. That would be risky, traveling the same roads where the army had found them before, but they had to hope that two riders -- or one rider and one wolf -- could escape notice. It was the only choice.

Arthur found it difficult to sleep that night. He ended up journaling by candlelight in the kitchen. He sketched Tilly and Sadie returning with full saddlebags and solemn expressions. 

_ Looking for John again _ _,_ he wrote.  _ God help us all, but we’ve got to find him. Sadie and I will do what we can. He may just turn up here while we’re gone, but somehow I don’t think so. My guess is he needs our help, somehow, and so we are going to give it, if we can.  _

He flipped to the section of his journal where he kept track of the moon. He hadn’t been counting the days lately, not as carefully as he should have. He updated his accounts with tick marks. Two nights until the full moon. He’d find out then just what the strange rules of his new condition were. 

At last, he blew out the candle and put the journal away. His eyes had started to blur and he reckoned he might even be able to sleep. As he settled in his bedroll near the door, a wild wolf howled outside, through the autumn cold and dark. For now, he had sturdy timber walls between himself and the wolf. For now, he was safe and hidden from the eyes of the law. Dawn would change all that. He drifted into his uneasy dreams as the wolf howled on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone reading this -- thank you for being exactly who you are.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Sadie hit the road!
> 
> CW for this chapter specifically because it's not in the tags: racism, misogyny.

Dawn brought a silver blanket of frost across the meadow. In the light of the low sun, it sparkled like a field of jewels, interspersed with bright purple lupines and the golden reflection off the winding stream that meandered about the center of the valley. The morning chorus of songbirds were out in full force. In the distance, an elk bugled. 

Arthur wrapped himself in a coat that Tilly and Sadie had bought at the Wallace Station store. He gave his rifle and revolver a last polish and slung the bow and quiver over one shoulder. He checked his saddlebags one last time as he stood by the door. They were leaving most of the canned goods here with Abigail and Tilly, along with most of the money, two repeaters, and a pair of pistols, plus a decent stockpile of ammunition. They weren’t as well-equipped as Arthur’s old tent in the gang had been, but they’d manage. He hoped they’d manage. 

Arthur took his hat from its peg by the door. He adjusted the fit of his satchel. Back on the road.

Abigail, Tilly, and a yawning Jack came downstairs to see them off. Abigail surprised him by giving him a sudden hug. 

“Take care. Bring him back safe,” she whispered before turning to embrace Sadie. Arthur, dumbstruck, managed to say, “We’ll try.” 

Tilly followed it up with a hug of her own. “Come back in one piece, okay?”

“Yes, Miss Tilly,” he told her. 

The last straw was Jack, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, looking up and saying, “Mama says you’re gonna find my dad, Uncle Arthur.”

Arthur blinked hard. “Don’t you worry, kid,” he got out. “It’ll be okay.” He turned, saddlebags slung under one arm, and before he did anything truly humiliating like lose his ability to speak, opened the cabin door and stepped out into the cool autumn air.

Bob and Moonstone pricked their ears and nickered at Arthur as he entered the barn ahead of Sadie. They’d already figured out he was the one dishing out feed most days. 

“Sorry to let you down,” he said, and grabbed Moonstone’s halter instead. He gave her a little grain, but not enough for a full breakfast. They’d eat more along the way. Instead, he tacked her up while Sadie did the same with Bob. He led her out into the ranch yard before swinging into the saddle and pointing her south.

They’d decided to travel via the southwestern road through Black Bone Forest and past Owanjila on their way to Strawberry. Arthur started at a walk to get Moonstone and Bob warmed up properly. Dozing pronghorns startled into flight as they cut side-by-side across the valley. Arthur scanned the southern road for travelers, but it was quiet at this time of morning. No doubt they’d run into other travelers on the road, but for now, he welcomed the peace and quiet.

Sadie didn’t seem especially keen on conversation at the moment. When Arthur glanced over at her, he saw that familiar tension in her shoulders, a sharp eye on the treeline. When they joined the road, and turned due south, Arthur loosened the rifle in its holster by his saddle. He wanted to be able to draw it quickly if needed. By unspoken signal, he and Sadie increased the pace to the trot. 

As usual, Black Bone Forest was full of life. Arthur had sometimes come here when he needed a break from the gang. It was real wild country. He hadn’t been exaggerating earlier when he’d mentioned the bears and cougars that lived here, and you had to have a healthy respect for them, but there was a part of him that was secretly happy to find a place like this. 

_ Good wolf country,  _ he thought. Christ alive, he was turning into Albert Mason. Next thing he knew he’d be trying to cozy up to alligators or some such. 

The ravens were beginning to awaken in the old dead trees. They croaked and clammered and chattered away. Far overhead, a bald eagle circled against the blue. When he scanned the ground, he could see the tracks of chipmunks, squirrels, raccoons, rats, skunks, possums -- every imaginable rodent and weasel creature passing by night. From a cluster of bushes came the snorting and squealing of a herd of boar. No, that wasn’t the right word for a bunch of boar. Hosea had told him once that a group of boar is known as a sounder. It was a good word, maybe the kind of thing he’d make a note of in the margins of his journal if he remembered later.

A pounding on the road ahead jolted him back. It sounded like a stage coming up the road from the south and moving at a decent clip. He slowed Moonstone to a halt and exchanged a glance with Sadie. 

“We play it cool,” she said. 

He nodded back and guided Moonstone to the side of the road. Sadie and Bob followed behind. They trotted up the road towards the oncoming stage.

It turned the corner into view. A four-horse team going along at the canter. One driver and one man riding shotgun. No outriders. Looked to be a fairly fancy stage, newly painted, golden accents on the lettering. Arthur’s old instincts almost made him reach for his rifle. What the hell were they doing out here, driving through wild country with no protection, fairly asking to get robbed?

But that wasn’t his job today. He reached up to tip his hat at the driver as they approached. 

“Howdy!” said the driver brightly, and took no more notice of them as the coach rumbled past.

As the sound of hooves and wheels faded behind them, Arthur chanced a look at Sadie. He said nothing, just a crooked smile.

“No way, Arthur.”

“I know, I know. But you have to admit…”

“If we was in that line of work…” Her face softened and she returned his smile. “It’d be easy as apple pie.”

They continued down the road, increasing the pace to a canter. The frost began to melt from the grasses and tree branches. Small animals fled, chittering, as they pounded past. A possum hissed at them and played dead in the ditch by the roadside. Arthur spotted some fresh-looking cougar tracks by the side of the road and this time, he unholstered his rifle. But no big cat emerged from the underbrush. 

On the southern road past Owanjila, they passed a few ragged-looking travelers, but no more coaches and, mercifully, no Pinkertons or soldiers. No bounty hunters, rival gangs, or even any bears. It was downright peaceful as they cantered past the sunlit lake and through the deep woods. Eventually, it had Arthur on edge. Things were going too smoothly, and in his experience, and especially in the past six months, that wasn’t how things went. 

Around noon, they reached Strawberry. Just outside the town, Sadie signaled for a halt. Arthur reached down to give Moonstone a pat. “What is it?”

“I reckon I should go in there alone. Check out the place. If I’m not back in half an hour, you follow me in and see what’s up. Do the stray dog act.”

“Stray dog act? You think these people won’t just shoot me on sight?”

“You kidding? This place is full of rich tourists and stuffed shirts who wouldn’t know a bison from a dairy cow. Just  _ act  _ a little. Think of it like one of Hosea’s scams.”

“Sure, and I always hated playing dress-up.”

“You got a better idea?”

Arthur frowned. Then, “Fine. But if I get shot for this, you owe me.”

“Fair.” She clucked to Bob and headed off into town. Arthur rode into the trees just off the road with Moonstone, noted the rough position of the sun for timekeeping, and dismounted. 

He would have liked to pull out his journal, but he couldn’t relax. They were just off the road, and should be screened by some heavy brush and a steep downward slope, but they were still in dangerous territory, being so close to a town. Instead, he inspected his revolvers and satisfied himself that they were in excellent condition. He fed Moonstone her lunch and ate a biscuit or two himself. And he kept one eye on the sun.

It was getting frustratingly close to a half-hour since Sadie had gone into town when something rustled at the nearby bushes by the road. Arthur turned, expecting to see her pushing through the heavy undergrowth, but instead, a different voice spoke up.

“Is that you, Cassidy? You can’t keep running off like --”

The person who pushed through the bushes was not Sadie. It was a man in a checkered jacket with a pencil-thin moustache. He looked familiar somehow. He went white as a sheet to see Arthur at the bottom of the short slope beneath the bushes. 

“You’re not Cassidy.”

“No, I ain’t. And you’re --” the name came to him in a snap -- “Jimmy Brooks.”

“Oh.” If it were possible, Brooks’ face got even paler. “I remember you. I’ve seen -- they’re looking for you!”

“I thought you said you had a terrible memory,” said Arthur. Beneath the menacing face he tried to put on, his heart was racing. This could be the end.

“I did! I mean, I do! You…” Jimmy Brooks looked around in a panic, as though he expected a whole posse of outlaws to descend from the trees. “There’s posters of you.”

“I’m sure you must be mistaken,” Arthur growled. Mentally he ran through the possible outcomes of this little standoff. If Brooks ran for town to raise the alarm, Arthur wasn’t sure he’d be able to catch him in time. Even if he did, Brooks would certainly make enough noise to bring a whole bunch of people out to investigate. He and Sadie would have to either fight or run for it, neither of which was likely to end well. The Pinkertons would find out what part of the country to look for them, at the very least.

Jimmy Brooks stood very still among the bushes. He seemed to be shaking just a little. At last he squeaked out, “It ain’t my business.”

A wave of relief swept over Arthur. “Indeed, Mr. Brooks.”

“I never saw you, not once.”

“Go on and look for your friend Cassidy, then.”

“I will. You have a fine day, sir.” Brooks stumbled backward through the brush. Once he’d gone, Arthur let himself exhale slowly. He’d trusted Jimmy Brooks once before and had come out all right. He could only hope it would go the same way this time. 

He was just considering whether to change and head into town in search of Sadie when the bushes on the slope above rustled again. His hand jumped to his revolver and he drew, ready to fire, when the leaves parted to reveal Sadie. 

“Hey, Arthur,” she said. “It’s only me.” Arthur holstered the revolver with a nod.

“Did you find anything?”

“There’s a couple of Army fellas in town on leave. Officers. I heard them lounging around the hotel in town talking about their regiment. Might be I could get something out of them, but I’d like to have backup if I go in.”

“So I go down there with you, is that it?”

“Will you, Arthur? I don’t think they’ll shoot you if you’re with me. Stray dog act, like I said.”

“I’m not much of an actor.”

“Neither am I, but between the two of us, we’ll manage.”

Arthur felt naked. He  _ was  _ naked, but normally in his fur, it didn’t feel that way. But strolling into Strawberry at Sadie’s side was putting a whole new spin on things. 

He’d seldom been this close to a human being in his wolf shape, and it was making part of him very skittish. The very closeness of her was jarring. As soon as he stepped onto the road alongside Sadie, he had to fight the urge to bolt for the woods. He glanced up at her -- people were damn  _ tall _ from this perspective -- and she flashed him a tight smile. 

He stuck by her side as they took the road approaching town from the southwest. It figured that the closer he was to Sadie, the less likely the locals were to shoot him. He didn’t share Sadie’s confidence in the locals’ inability to spot a wolf. There had to be a few hunters and trappers in town who’d be able to pick him out from a dog. 

At the bottom of the short hill, Sadie walked him past the stagecoach stop. He glanced at the driver out of the corner of his eye, but the man was caught up reading a newspaper. A couple of his horses pricked their ears and shifted their feet as he passed, but none panicked or bolted. And then they were past the stage and entering Strawberry proper.

It was Arthur’s first time being anywhere near a town in this shape. He quickly decided he disliked it. The smells were far too intense: horse and human, rotting waste and garbage, cut timber and smoke. A cart rolled over the near bridge and the sound of its wheels and the horse’s iron-shod hooves was thunderous. But maybe worst of all were all the voices: laughing, shouting, swearing, muttering. To his ears, used to the sounds of wind and water and owl calls, the riot of human voices seemed to press in on him. 

A foxhound, tied to a nearby post, began frantically barking and snarling at him as he passed. He fought down the urge to growl back, though he couldn’t keep his hackles from rising. A cat scampered up to the roof of a house at the sight of him, then hissed at him from above. Arthur shook his head and, agitated and uncomfortable, stared down at the reeking town mud. He could only hope Sadie got her work done quickly with those officers.

They crossed the bridge, Arthur pacing close by Sadie’s side. As they neared the hotel, a sudden noise from the general store across the street made Arthur jump.

“Jesus Christ on a stick, that’s a wolf!”

Two men leaned against the wall of the store. Both looked like trappers -- worn leather, unwashed smell, collection of animal pelts done up into their clothes. The one who had seemingly just spoken was waving a worn beaver hat in Arthur’s direction instead of pointing. 

“Lady, is that creature yours?” asked the other in a thick Roanoke Ridge accent.

“What he is ain’t none of your business,” Sadie snapped. Arthur wanted to bristle and snarl at the men, but stopped himself just in time. Making a scene would only worsen things. He couldn’t bring himself to play the friendly dog with a wagging tail, but he made himself stand still. 

“You can’t fool me none,” said the one with the beaver hat. “I seen lots of wolves. Killed ‘em, too.” 

“He’s mine. You try anything and I’ll put one between your eyes.” 

The trapper spat on the ground. “He so much as looks at me funny and I’m getting me a new rug.”

Sadie was visibly struggling not to draw on the trappers. Arthur nudged his shoulder into her leg. When she glanced down, he gave the barest possible shake of his head. They couldn’t afford to get drawn into a fight. 

Sadie glared at him. Then she spat right back in the trappers’ direction. “You pair of idiots ain’t worth my time.” She turned on her heels and marched emphatically in the direction of the hotel. Arthur cast a glance backward at the trappers in case either of them tried anything while her back was turned, but neither made a move, except to mutter insults. 

Sadie marched up the steps to the hotel. She held the door open long enough for Arthur to slip in behind her. He could almost feel the weight of the walls pressing in on him, and although he was much closer to the ground than normal, the ceiling felt close and heavy. The scents of soap and polished wood and tobacco smoke were suddenly ten times stronger. He shook his head to clear it. Christ, civilization was even worse in this shape.

Two men were sitting in fancy chairs by the fireplace. One was smoking a pipe, and both were dressed in suits. Their haircuts screamed military, and if that hadn’t been enough to give them away, one was in the middle of telling a long and evidently hilarious story.

“So I tell him, ‘Chalmers! Did you bring me the saddle tree stretcher?’ And he says, ‘No, sir.’ And I tell him, ‘Right! That’s another week of latrine duty!’ And he says, ‘Sir, Sergeant Daniels told me there’s no such  _ thing _ as a saddle tree stretcher.’ And I say, ‘Are you calling me a liar?’”

The other one, who’d been facing the door and laughing, all at once noticed the entrance of Sadie and Arthur. The laughter died. “Ma’am, you can’t bring animals into this establishment.”

“Who put you in charge?”

This wasn’t going anywhere useful. No sense in Sadie angering the officers she was supposed to be grilling for information. Arthur turned around. The door hadn’t latched and pushed open when he leaned into it. 

“Where are you…” Sadie whispered after him. He couldn’t reply, so instead he just sat on one end of the porch and stared back at her. When she stood unmoving in the door, he jerked his head back towards the hotel parlor. 

Sadie sighed. “You better back me up if this goes wrong.” Then she headed back in and left the door slightly ajar behind her.

Open door or not, Arthur could hear every word of the conversation inside. He kept one eye on the street and both ears pricked for Sadie and the soldiers. 

“My dog’ll just be outside,” Sadie began. “He’s a bit protective. Likes to stay nearby.”

“What sort of dog is that, ma’am?” asked one of the officers. 

“Uh, husky.”

“I’d say more likely part wolf.”

“Might be. Only got him when he was a pup.” A silence fell. Then one of the officers piped up: “So anyway, Skinner, as you were saying?”

Sadie spoke again, cutting them off. “Are you two with the Army?”

“Yes ma’am. Thirty-first cavalry, stationed out of Fort Wallace.” The officer spoke a bit stiffly. 

“I heard there was some trouble up there lately,” Sadie said, clearly trying to sound innocent. 

“I don’t know what you heard, ma’am, but the US Army has it all under control,” said an officer. Another silence fell. 

It seemed like charming information out of Army officers was, unfortunately, not one of Sadie’s many talents. Not that Arthur would have been any better, in her shoes. He was no Hosea. Abigail or Tilly would have done a cleaner job, but no help for it now.. He focused for any sounds of tension or signs of a situation going south. Sadie gamely tried again.

“Any of those bandits giving you trouble? I heard a few of them escaped.”

“Ma’am, might I ask what all this is about?” The officer’s tone was sharp with suspicion. Arthur gathered himself, ready to rush the door if needed.

“Nothing!” Then, seeming to realize she’d sounded defensive, “I’m a bounty hunter is all. I’d like to know if there’s bounties to chase.”

The officers exploded into laughter. Arthur felt his hackles rise. When one of them recovered himself enough to speak, he said, “You’d best leave that to the authorities. We’ll catch them, don’t you worry your pretty head about it.” 

“These are real bandits, sweetheart,” said the other. “One of them took out four of our men in Cumberland Forest! Let the men handle men’s work.” 

Arthur could practically hear Sadie’s pulse racing through the wall of the hotel. He leaned up so he could see through the window and caught sight of her standing still and shaking slightly. He was just questioning whether he should go in and get her when she spun around and marched out the door of her own accord. 

“Come on,” she spat, not looking at him. “We’re done here.”

He trotted to catch up and followed Sadie back across the bridge. She was fuming and red in the face and was biting her lip very hard. 

As they passed the stage on their way out of town, Arthur caught sight of a familiar checkered jacket. It was Jimmy Brooks beside another man, quite possibly the Cassidy he’d been chasing. They were climbing into the stage together. Hopefully getting out of town and out of Arthur’s way. He had no desire to cross paths with Jimmy Brooks again. Too nerve-wracking. 

Finally, they climbed the hill and turned off the road towards where they’d hidden the horses and Arthur’s clothes. Strawberry, as usual, had been a thoroughly unpleasant experience. Not as bad as the time he and Micah had shot up the place, but. He’d be glad to put it behind him. 

Arthur changed behind some bushes and dressed quickly. He returned to find Sadie throwing knives into a tree trunk. She seemed to ignore the  _ thunk _ of blade into bark and just stared at her target with a furious expression.

“We got what we came for,” said Arthur, trying to break the silence.

Sadie wrestled one of the knives free of the tree. “Yeah. They didn’t get him.”

“So we head for Cumberland Forest.”

“Yep.” She threw the blade again. 

“Look… those fools were just that. Can’t listen to idiots, Sadie.”

“Sure, Arthur.”

“They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Nope.” She wrenched the blade free with an angry flourish.

“So let’s just go and put it behind us.”

“Arthur, it ain’t that simple!” Sadie turned and looked him straight in the eyes for the first time since they’d left Strawberry. “No matter where I go, there’ll always be men like that. You can just walk into any town and get treated seriously. Me, I’m lucky if I’m not laughed out of the place. And Tilly gets it even worse. She had a hell of a time in Saint Denis; didn’t want to talk about it in front of everyone, but she told me on the ride. Whole country’s racist right through and don’t take kindly to women fending for themselves either.

“It don’t stop, Arthur. I’m  _ tired  _ of it, but I don’t get to be tired since  _ you _ can’t show your face in front of people! I just have to put up with fools like that in every town, every day.”

Arthur was startled into silence. He’d known things were harder for women and folks that weren’t white, but he’d never heard it laid out so clearly. 

More carefully this time, he said, “Sadie, I’m sorry. I weren’t thinking. You’re right about all of it. I’ll try to remember better, and if there’s anything I can do to help…” He grimaced a little as he said the last part, then backtracked. “I mean, I know you ain’t helpless. You’ve saved my life; don’t think I’ll ever forget that. But still, if I can do anything…” He trailed off, unable to find the words. 

At last, Sadie nodded. “Okay. Give me a minute.”

He did. He took the time to give Moonstone another brush and double-check his gun belt was fastened the way he liked. By the time he’d finished testing his bowstring, Sadie was unhitching Bob and tightening his cinch. 

“Let’s go,” she said.

Arthur mounted up and followed.

They edged around Strawberry, near the foot of Mount Shann, until they met the road headed north. Sadie set the pace and maintained a general silence. Arthur rode behind and felt like a fool.

He’d gone and said all the wrong things, just like always. And right after those damn fools had gone and laughed at her, too. He couldn’t imagine what that must be like. And even worse for Tilly. 

He’d seen a fair bit of injustice in this country in his years. Only just in the last year he’d run into the Wapiti, Fussar’s plantation, and the entire rotten racist mess in Lemoyne. He got to ignore it most of the time, if he chose. But plenty of people didn’t get that choice. He’d tried, sometimes, to fix things where he could, but as with the Wapiti, he often ended up only making things worse. He cursed himself for a fool for the thousandth time. When was he going to learn?

As the afternoon wore on and they wound steadily north, Sadie’s mood began to thaw. She started to tell him about what else she’d seen in Strawberry before she’d come to get him. Some nice bounty posters in the Sheriff's office, but none of John, Arthur, or indeed any of the Van der Lindes. No sign or word of Pinkertons about, and only the two officers by way of Army men. Nothing interesting at the post office. If she hadn’t happened to overhear the officers complaining about their enlisted men, she’d have come out with little to show for it, apart from a few extra cans of food from the general store.

Arthur, in return, told her the full story of his run-ins with Jimmy Brooks. She made a skeptical noise when he told her he’d let Brooks go.

“He could turn you in, you know.”

“He didn’t, not the first time and not this one either.”

“It’s a risk.”

“I just couldn’t kill him is all.”

Sadie turned back in the saddle for a moment to look at him. “Them rumors from back at camp were true. You have gone soft, haven’t you?”

Arthur sighed. “I’m starting to suspect maybe I always was. Just didn’t let it out for a number of years.”

“Who’d have believed it?” Sadie chuckled and a grin crept onto her face. “Big bad outlaw with five thousand on his head has got a heart in there.”

It was good to see her smile again. “Don’t go spreading it around, now.”

They decided to camp near the river, just on the West Elizabeth side of the border. If the lack of posters in the Sheriff’s office could be trusted, there shouldn’t be bounty hunters looking for them on this side of the border. Up in New Hanover, though, it was sure to be a different story. Arthur hitched the horses just back in the trees near the bluffs overlooking Cumberland Falls. They could keep an eye on the road and be close enough to cross the river first thing in the morning and make it up to Cumberland Forest by midday. That should leave them plenty of time for tracking. 

As he fed Moonstone her evening meal, Arthur took a look at the sky. Didn’t seem likely to rain anytime soon. He’d had enough of that miserable weather. Should be fine tracking weather tomorrow. For now, the sun was setting over the Grizzlies and the moon would soon rise. 

Sadie tossed Arthur a tin of canned salmon. He took it gratefully -- he hadn’t eaten anything all day. “I’ll try and hunt soon,” he said. “At least it’d be a change from the cans.” As he glanced over the river and spotted the first few evening stars, he remembered what else he had to tell her. 

“Listen,” he said. “I reckon it’s best if I go on my own tomorrow. Four legs, I mean. It’ll be safer from patrols and bounty hunters and I can try to catch John’s scent. I won’t go too far ahead.”

“Don’t go fighting any bears this time, okay?”

“Sure. But the thing is, tomorrow’s the full moon. I don’t really know what’ll happen, but there’s a decent chance I can’t come back until morning. If that happens, just set up camp somewhere quiet and I’ll find you close to dawn.” He found it a little easier to talk about than he’d expected. Maybe walking into Strawberry by her side in wolf shape had helped get rid of some of his uneasiness. She’d seen him up close and personal three times now and hadn’t run away yet.

“Okay. I’ll even keep an eye on that mare of yours. Say, maybe this is my chance to check out that journal,” she deadpanned.

“Don’t you dare,” Arthur replied. 

Arthur took first watch. The light of the near-full moon was just about bright enough to sketch by. He wrote:  _ I have never had much luck in Strawberry. Went in there today with Sadie, and me in my best disguise. It turns out that civilization is even worse for a wolf. Some vile Army types were there. At least we learned that John hasn’t been caught yet. Sadie is sick of being insulted and I cannot blame her.  _

_ Tomorrow we go looking for John up north. With any luck, I can find his trail and none of us does anything utterly foolish that might tip off the Army or the Pinkertons. But I’ve never been that lucky. _

_ If and when we find him, then what? We winter at Hanging Dog, but there’s no chance of staying there in the long run without being found out. Maybe we should go back out west, for real this time. Maybe some of us can start again. After all, I ran into Jimmy Brooks again today and once again I didn’t get the law called on me. What are the chances of that? _

He sketched a little in the margins: squirrels, dogs, the stagecoach they hadn’t robbed that morning, three boars next to the word  _ sounder _ . The moon continued its rise. It was bright and cold, and if he hadn’t been tracking the days he could easily have mistaken it for the full moon, except that his bones knew the difference. 

Eventually, Sadie tapped him on the shoulder. “All quiet,” he said, before lying down on his bedroll. For once, sleep came quickly and deeply, and he did not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur confronts privilege and is v. awkward despite having good intentions. 
> 
> Next time on WMG: the full moon!
> 
> It's great to be back to this AU! Thank you to everyone who leaves comments, they really do make up a massive chunk of my motivation. Y'all are fabulous. I can't realistically promise any kind of regular update schedule but I do intend to finish this fic at some point.


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